953 

C890 


BIBD 


POEMS 


BY 


CHRISTOPHER   PEARSE 


/CRANCH. 


PHILADELPHIA: 

CAREY   AND   HART. 
1844. 


CBOQ 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1844,  by 
CAREY  AND  HART, 

in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  for  the  Eastern  District  of 
Pennsylvania. 


C.  Sherman,  Printer. 


TO 

RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON, 

AS 

AN  IMPERFECT  TESTIMONY  OF  REGARD 

AND  GRATEFUL  ADMIRATION, 


Uttle  UoUtme 
BY  THE  AUTHOR 


M1658S8 


(College  Cgfe. 

They  go  to  scole  to  lern  logyk  and  lawe,  and  eke  contemplation. 

PIERS  PLOUHMAN. 

THERE  stands  upon  a  hille,  al  verdantlie 

Yclad  with  trees,  and  grasse,  and  waving  graine, 

An  edifice,  ne  very  haught  and  highe, 

Ne  lowe ;  of  bricks  ybuilt,  joli  and  plaine ; 

Beseemeth  such  an  house  there  to  remaine. 

A  spire  decks  the  roofe,  which  to  the  eyne 

Of  wandering  wighte,  who  there  his  course  hath  ta'en, 

Beneathe  Dan  Sol  doth  often  glittery nge  shine : 

And  al  beyonde  the  walles  are  groves  and  meadowes  fine. 

There  often  have  I  whilom  conned  my  taske, 
Intent  on  booke  with  no  huge  pleasaunce  fraughte, 
Withouten  hope  of  drinke  from  luscious  flaske, 
To  speed  upon  his  waye  one  labouringe  thoughte : 
A  booke  as  drye,  perdie,  was  never  boughte ! 
Ofte  have  I  nodded,  filled  with  drowsie  sleepe, 
Which  Morpheus  from  his  sombre  land  hath  broughte, 
And  oft  would  starte,  and  vigyl  fain  would  keepe, 
Yet   that  same  sleepie  god    still    o'er   my  braine  dyd 
creepe. 

2 


10  COLLEGE  LYFE. 

Then,  ere  I  could  againe  my  booke  resume, 
O  fatale  finisher  of  al  my  joye  ! 
The  glib-tongd  bel  would  tingle  through  the  roome, 
O  cursed  bel,  my  peace  thus  to  destroye ! 
No  elfin  sprite  me  then  mote  so  anrioye, 
Ne  goblyn  ghoste  with  hellish  puissance, 
Ne  byrchen  swytch,  ydrad  by  idle  boye, 
Ne  to  the  hen-peckt  wighte  hys  wyfe's  keen  glance, 
More  troublous  seemes   than  this,    my  miserie   to  en 
hance. 

For  who  that  bel  hath  hearde,  must  strait  him  move, 
To  roome  where  syts  in  state  professour  grave, 
With  booke  in  hande,  that  booke  he  well  dothe  love, 
Greeke,  Latin,  Algeb,  (Lord  me  from  them  save !) 
Eache  lucklesse  youthe  must  wel  his  lesson  have, 
Or  he  eftsoons  to  lecture  vyle  is  ledde, 
To  answer  for  his  sad  idlesse,  or  brave 
The  puissance  of  wordes  he  needes  must  dred, 
Words  scattered  eke  like  hayl  on  hys  devoted  hedde. 

Yet  in  those  walls  there  hearde  hath  been  ful  ofte 

By  nyghte  or  daie  the  sounde  of  jollitie  ; 

But  if  in  studie-houres,  ah  !  then  righte  softe 

Some  tutor  ryseth  up  ere  wighte  can  see, 

And  stoppeth  noyse  of  mirthe  or  minstrelsie, 

And  sendeth  eache  to  hys  own  habitance ; 

Thus  endeth  often  manye  a  youthful  spree. 

Helps  not  that  they  complayn  of  this  usaunce, 

For  lawes  must  be  enforced ;  ne  left  to  ydle  chaunce. 


COLLEGE  LYFE.  11 

Ne  noyse  alone  of  merriment  was  hearde. 

There  met  the  eare  ofttimes  straunge  mingled  soundes, 

Not  like  the  liquid  notes  of  woodlande  byrde  ; 

More  like  a  packe,  methinks,  of  hungrye  houndes, 

Yelping  a  chorus  ere  they  slippe  their  boundes ; 

Fyddels  ycrackt  and  huskie  flutes  were  there, 

Such  discorde  as  the  very  aire  astoundes ! 

That  man  must  praye  for  deafnesse  who  would  beare 

The  chaos  straunge  and  loude  that  filleth  al  the  aire. 

But  who  can  saye  with  what  unfeigned  glee 

Eache  hearte  beate  loude  when  dinner-houre  dyd  come, 

Then  like  the  rysinge  billowes  of  the  sea 

Those  younkers  burste  from  everye  tedious  roome. 

Not  sweeter  to  the  peasaunt  is  hys  home, 

Hys  wyfe  and  chyldren  after  travel  longe, 

Ne  to  the  Rabbi  is  hys  sacred  tome, 

Ne  to  the  babblynge  foole  hys  own  deare  tonge, 

Than  is  this  dinner-bel  to  these  same  lerners  yonge. 

Anon  they  eate  and  callen  out  for  more, 
Which  to  their  nosethyrls,  smels  with  savoure  sweete, 
Whyle  servaunts  brynge  them  through  the  kytchen-door 
Potatoes  hotte,  and  sauce,  and  sodden  meate, 
Which,  as  they  licken  ofte  their  chappes,  they  eate, 
Then  loudlie  call  againe  for  thys  or  that : 
I  wot  not  why  they  dye  not  of  surfeite, 
So  much  they  gobbel  up,  both  leane  and  fatte  ; 
So  faste  their  jawes  do  goe,  small  tyme  is  there  for 
chatte. 


12  COLLEGE  LYFE. 

O,  then  to  lounge  beneathe  the  spreadyng  trees, 
Where  al  dale  long  the  blythe  byrds  singen  sweete, 
There  lysten  to  the  syghing  of  the  breeze, 
There  byd  the  echoes  manie  a  note  repeate, 
Whyles  al  arounde  the  skie  waxe  warme  with  heate, 
And  lyttel  flies  dyd  hum  a  drowsie  song. 
And  some,  mosquitoes  highte,  dyd  byte  our  feete, 
Suckyng  the  bloode,  with  tube  instead  of  tong, 
Whenas  we  brushed  them  off,  so  much  the  more  they 
stung. 

Sometymes  we  wandered  by  a  sylvan  streame, 
That  made  soft  murmurings  on  a  summer's  daie. 
Along  its  bankes  how  often  dyd  we  dreame, 
And  see  its  darke  greene  waters  glyde  awaye, 
Kyssing  the  flowers  which  to  their  brinke  dyd  straie. 
There,  too,  huge  scarped  rockes  dyd  hie  appeare, 
And  from  the  sunne  dyd  shelter  it  alwaie  ; 
Here  as  we  sometymes  strayed,  wel  mote  we  heare 
Sweet  sounde  of  distant  bel,  or  mil-wheel  plashyng  neare. 

Alack,  to  change  this  scene  it  grieves  me  sore ; 

To  tel  of  fences  clombe  and  plundered  trees, 

How  one  devoured  fruits  enow  for  four, 

And  each  dyd  such  purloyn  as  dyd  him  please. 

Al  this  was  done,  perdie,  with  impish  ease  ; 

Smal  grypes  dyd  conscience  give,  those  tymes  I  trow. 

But  ah  !  how  harde  when  much  replete  with  these, 

To  bend  againe  o'er  bookes  with  clouded  browe. 

No  tyme  was  that  for  us  to  lern  the  Why  and  Howe. 


COLLEGE  LYFE.  13 

O  College  Lyfe !  though  manye  a  payne,  I  ween, 

Each  lazie  youthe  must  needs  have  oft  yfelte, 

Still  hast  thou  pleasaunce  rare  which  few  have  seen 

Of  them  who  ne'er  at  lernynge's  shryne  have  knelt. 

Thou  art  the  sweetest  lyfe  was  ever  dealte 

To  man,  from  happie  starres  in  heaven  that  ben ; 

Starres,  ever  bryghte  !  sweet  starres  that  thus  do  melt 

With  your  softe  rayes  the  destynies  of  men, 

How  lyttel  of  your  wondrous  influence  do  we  ken ! 


1834. 


14 


Ulttstc  of 

PAUT  I. 


A  VISION  o'er  my  soul  hath  swept, 
A  dream  of  light  ;  'twas  music  part, 
And  part  it  was  my  happy  heart 

Made  music  as  I  slept. 

I  cannot  paint  that  glorious  dream, 
Words  are  such  cold  and  lifeless  things  ; 
Of  all  the  life  and  light  it  brings, 

I  can  but  give  a  gleam. 

I  wandered  with  a  calm  surprise 
Half  on  the  earth,  and  half  in  air, 
And  sometimes  I  went  gliding  where 

The  ocean  meets  the  skies. 

O,  it  was  sweet  to  roam  away  ! 
No  cumbrous  limbs  to  clog  the  motion, 
As  through  the  fields,  the  air,  the  ocean, 

I  could  not  choose  but  stray. 


THE  MUSIC  OF  NATURE.  15 

Asleep  in  body,  but  awake 
In  soul  to  all  things  bright  and  dear, 
My  fancies  wandered  far  and  near, 

Nor  would  my  slumbers  break. 

There  seemed  a  ceaseless  harmony, 
Which  sounding  every  where  I  went 
Came  ringing  through  the  firmament, 

Or  from  the  pathless  sea  ; 

Or  sometimes  from  the  lonely  woods, 
Or  from  the  high  o'er-watching  stars, 
For  silence  now  had  burst  her  bars 

Through  Nature's  solitudes. 

And  then  I  knew  that  music  is 
The  native  tongue  of  none  but  Gladness, 
That  Silence  weds  herself  to  Sadness, 

Who  hath  no  harmonies* 

And  still  I  roamed  with  lightsome  heart, 
And  from  the  tones  so  intermingled, 
Swift-gathering  Fancy  ever  singled 

One  voice  from  every  part. 

And  first  I  heard  the  mighty  ocean 
Go  thundering  to  his  empire  bounds  ; 
A  voice  of  many  blended  sounds 

In  sad  and  wild  commotion. 


16  THE  MUSIQ  OF  NATURE. '• 


The  mad  waves  roared  in  spray-fire  flame, 
The  white  storm-bird  flew  screaming  by ; 
But  sweetly  from  the  listening  sky 

The  softened  echoes  came. 

All  mingled  in  one  giant  tone, 
Till  stunned  by  the  loud  ocean  band, 
I  turned  away — 'twas  sad  to  stand 

On  that  dark  shore  alone. 

But  to  the  stars  my  face  I  turned, 
And  strange  as  it  may  seem,  methought 
My  ears  a  slow  faint  anthem  caught 

From  the  calm  orbs  that  burned 

a#** 
Amid  the  dark  blue  firmament : 

There  hung  the  seven -stringed  lyre*  on  high, 
But  a  reckless  comet  came  rushing  by, 
And  swept  it  as  he  went  ; 

And  there  came  a  troubled  music  out, 
And  yet  it  jarred  not  on  the  ear, 
For  the  circling  choir  rang  sweet  and  clear 

As  their  first  morning  shout. 

I  wandered  still  and  heard  it  come  ; 
It  fell  with  the  meek  starlight  down, 
And  not  a  thunder  voice  or  frown 

Passed  o'er  the  glittering  dome : 
1  And  yield  the  lyre  of  heaven,  another  string."— CAMPBELL. 


THE  MUSIC  OF  NATURE.  17 

Till  by  the  border  of  a  wood, 
While  silver  moonlight  edged  the  trees 
Where  a  thousand  birds  rocked  by  the  breeze 

Were  sleeping,  soon  I  stood. 

A  soft  and  swelling  music  crept 
As  from  some  mighty  wind -harp  strings, 
Too  soft  to  wake  the  myriad  things 

That  mid  the  branches  slept. 

The  winds  were  sifting  through  the  pines  ; 
'Twas  sweet  yet  sad  to  hear  them  moan : 
Ah !  then  I  felt  I  was  all  alone 

By  Nature's  holiest  shrines. 

And  deep  amid  the  o'er-arching  trees 
A  low-toned  waterfall  was  gushing ; 
Unseen,  beneath,  a  stream  went  rushing 

And  mingling  with  the  breeze. 

A  musing  spirit  o'er  me  passed, 
And  Memory  took  me  to  the  day 
When  in  the  woodlands,  far  away, 

I  thus  stood  listening  last. 


18  THE  MUSIC  OF  NATURE. 


PAUT  II. 

SUDDEN  a  light  flashed  on  my  dream, 
The  pensive  tones  of  night  were  gone, 
And  I  was  by  a  dewy  lawn 

Lit  by  the  sun's  first  beam. 

A  wandering  voice  went  twittering  by, 
It  seemed  a  meadow-bird  of  spring ; 
It  came,  on  gay  and  glancing  wing 

Fast  leaping  through  the  sky. 

It  bore  me  back  to  childhood's  hours, 
And  I  was  in  the  fields  again, 
And  by  the  stream  and  in  the  glen 

Hunting  the  wild  wood  flowers. 

It  did  not  seem  so  very  strange, 
And  yet  I  felt  myself  a  child, 
As  gay,  as  thoughtless  and  as  wild, 

As  when  I  knew  no  change. 

And  then  came  tinkling  on  my  ear, 
As  if  to  strengthen  all  this  spell, 
The  grazing  herd's  low  meadow-bell : 

O,  it  was  sweet  to  hear ! 


THE  MUSIC  OF  NATURE.  19 

And  I  was  young — my  heart  was  light  ; 
The  stream  of  years  was  backward  rolled ; 
How  could  I  feel  that  I'd  grown  old, 

When  Memory  was  so  bright  ? 

I  wandered,  drinking  in  the  sound  : 
There  is  no  music  like  to  this 
That  floats  within  a  dream  of  bliss, 

When  night  is  all  around. 

Through  all  my  night  there  was  a  morn, 
A  little  fairy  morning  beaming, 
Like  sunlight  through  a  forest  streaming 

On  one  who  walks  forlorn. 

And  all  along,  where'er  I  wandered, 
The  sweet  mysterious  music  played ; 
'Twas  part  around  me,  partly  made 

Within  me,  as  I  pondered. 

And  part  of  it  a  mingled  feeling 
Made  up  of  joy  and  harmony, 
A  presence  that  brought  light  to  me, 

A  hidden  self  revealing. 

The  sea,  the  stars,  the  winds,  the  trees, 
The  stream,  the  waterfall,  the  dell, 
The  bird,  the  flowers,  the  meadow-bell, — 

I  felt  that  all  of  these 


20  THE  MUSIC  OF  NATURE. 

Were  but  the  symbols  of  a  soul 
Alive  with  hope  or  memory  ; 
The  mind's  immortal  harmony 

That  through  its  chambers  stole. 

And  to  the  spirit's  listening  ear, 
Whilst  slept  the  limbs  and  senses  all, 
Made  every  thing  seem  musical ; 

How  could  I  cease  to  hear  ? 

And  thus  it  may  be,  when  this  frame 
Is  laid  asleep  in  death  at  last ; 
The  soul  no  longer  overcast, 

To  Him  from  whom  it  came, 

Shall  brighten  upward  and  be  free, 
And  roam  amid  the  chiming  spheres, 
And  feel  within,  while  thus  it  hears, 

Eternal  Harmony. 

We  brought  it  with  us  here  below, — 
Within,  without,  we  feel  it  ever  ; 
Why  should  it  not,  as  now,  for  ever 

Through  an  Hereafter  go  ! 

For  music,  I  must  think,  was  given 
To  be  of  higher  life  a  token, 
The  language  by  the  angels  spoken, 

The  native  tongue  of  heaven ! 

Richmond,  Va.  June.  1836. 


21 


I  DREAMED  of  a  Flower  that  bloomed  in  the  ocean, 

Far  down — all  alone, 
So  deep,  there  was  not  a  sound  or  motion, 
Nor  a  sea-beast's  ear  to  catch  the  groan 

Of  the  upper  sea  in  its  strife. 

The  green  waves  were  noiseless  and  harmless  as  sleep, 
And  a  dim  light  struggled  to  pierce  the  deep, 
But  all  was  cold  and  shadowless, 
And  all  was  void  and  motionless, 
For  here  there  was  no  LIFE, 
Saving  of  this  one  flower. 
O  'twas  a  starlike  thing, 
A  vision  of  calm,  undying  power ; 
Bell-like  and  deep,  like  an  urn  of  pearl, 

With  anthers  all  golden  and  glittering, 
And  slowly  its  petals  of  white  did  unfurl ; 

A  marble  flower,  yet  living  and  growing  ; 
Sweet  and  pure  as  a  seraph's  dream. 
O  dim  are  the  diamond  and  ruby's  gleam, 
And  the  myriad  gems  that  are  glowing, 
When  I  think  on  the  light  of  this  lonely  flower, 
Far  down  in  its  silent  and  dim  sea-bower. 


22  THE  SOUL-FLOWER. 

The  storms  of  the  upper  waves  raged  on, 

But  here  was  no  tempest  or  noise  to  dread ; 
Huge  wrecks  and  bodies  of  men  came  down, 

But  they  hung  drifting  far  over  head, 
They  sank  not  down  to  the  sacred  bower 
Where  bloomed  the  peaceful  ocean-flower. 
The  sea-snake  and  whale  in  their  giant  race, 
Were  lost  when  they  sought  for  this  lonely  place, 
And  all  the  bright-coloured  things  that  gleam 
And  dart  through  the  deep,  were  like  meteors  that  stream 
Through  a  summer  sky;  while  the  sea-stars  shone, 
Some  in  clusters,  and  some  alone, 

Whose  far  off  twinklings  feebly  sent 
A  light  through  the  vast  dim  element. 

And  I  know  whenever  this  dream  comes  back, 
That  there  is  a  flower  like  this,  on  earth  : 
It  hath  not  here  its  place  of  birth, 

And  seldom  may  we  track 

The  path  that  leads  to  the  inner  shrine 
Where  its  glories  spread  and  shine. 

Yet  ye  need  not  roam  from  star  to  star  : 

Ye  need  not  seek  this  flower  afar ; 

It  blooms  deep  down  in  the  human  heart  ; 

It  hath  no  peer  in  the  pride  of  art, 

It  blooms  in  the  breast  of  the  wise  and  pure, 
But  withers  a  sinful  heart  within, 

For  its  amaranth  beauty  cannot  endure 
The  blighting  atmosphere  of  sin. 


THE  SOUL-FLOWER.  23 

O  holy  and  beautiful  Spirit-Flower ! 
Thou  art  no  dream  of  an  idle  hour ! 
Immortal  as  the  Primal  Beam — 
Too  true,  too  lovely  for  a  dream. 

Wouldst  thou  know  what  this  beauty  is  1 
Wouldst  thou  give  all  to  have  but  this  1 
Wouldst  thou  know  how  and  for  what  to  live? 
Wouldst  thou  garner  what  worlds  cannot  give  ? 
Then  guard  thine  own  heart :  in  its  fathomless  deeps 
The  swelling  bud  of  that  flower  sleeps. 

Watch,  lest  it  sleep  till  it  witl^  away ! 
Watch,  till  it  opens  and  blooms  to  the  day ! 

September,  1836. 


24 


©k  to  tfje  tUtnir. 

O  MELANCHOLY  .winter  Wind,  that  makest  moan 
So  sad,  so  sad  and  low 

Through  the  still  midnight,  while  the  sleeping  snow 
Lies  like  a  death-trai^,  underneath  the  moon  ! 
O  Wind,  that  moanest  that  dull  steady  tune, 
Like  some  deep  organ-pipe,  left  all  alone, 

By  sweetest  seraphs  left, 

Of  sacred  melody  bereft, 
And  given  to  the  wild  fiends  of  the  air, 
To  blow  what  mad  discordant  tones  they  list, — 

0  Wind,  wild  as  some  phantom  of  the  mist. 
That  sweeps  with  hollow  groan  the  hill-side  bare ! 

1  hear,  I  hear  thy  sullen  steady  moan, 

As  here  I  sit  alone. 

Strange  thoughts,  strange  feelings  come  and  sit  by  me, 
And  look  into  their  mirror,  fantasy ; 
Mysteries  like  thyself,  strange  Wind,  thou  bringest; 
Unto  the  soul,  as  to  a  harp,  thou  singest 
Hymns  of  unearthly  harmony. 


ODE  TO  THE  WIND.  25 

Type  of  the  Spirit  to  whose  deeps 

Thou  with  thy  deep  dost  call ! 

Of  that  great  mystery  that  never  sleeps, 

Within  the  breast  of  all, 

O  Wind,  whether  thou  blowest  sad  and  wild, 

Or  gently  breathest  with  glad  tones  and  mild, 

When  in  the  moonlit  leaves  the  sleeping  bird 

By  thy  bland  touch  is  stirred ; 
Whether  thou  ravest  mid  the  forests  bare, 
Or  bringest  odours  rare 

From  the  sweet  fields  that  load  the  warm  spring  air : 
Thou  art  a  shadow  of  the  soul  of  man : 
Now  calm,  now  full  of  joy,  now  frantic  glee, 

And  wild  as  wild  can  be ; 

Now  breathing  fragrance  to  sweet  heaven,  how  glad  ! 
Anon  with  whirlwind  fury  mad, 
And  often  full  of  murmurs  dull  and  sad, 
And  hearing  but  its  own  strange  harmony, 
As  now,  O  melancholy  wind,  I  hear  no  sound  but  thee. 

St.  Louis,  Jan.  1837. 


26 


I  STOOD  within  a  vision's  spell  ; 

I  saw,  I  heard.     The  liquid  thunder 
Went  pouring  to  its  foaming  hell, 

And  it  fell, 

Ever,  ever  fell 
Into  the  invisible  abyss  that  opened  under. 

I  stood  upon  a  speck  of  ground ; 
Before  me  fell  a  stormy  ocean. 
I  was  like  a  captive  bound ; 

And  around 

A  universe  of  sound 
Troubled  the  heavens  with  ever-quivering  motion. 

Down,  down  for  ever, — down,  down  for  ever, 

Something  falling,  falling,  falling, 
Up,  up  for  ever — up,  up  for  ever, 

Resting  never, 

Boiling  up  for  ever, 
Steam-clouds  shot  up  with  thunder-bursts  appalling. 


NIAGARA.  27 

A  tone  that  since  the  birth  of  man, 
Was  never  for  a  moment  broken, 
A  word  that  since  the  world  began, 

And  waters  ran 

Hath  spoken  still  to  man, — 
Of  God  and  of  Eternity  hath  spoken. 

Foam-clouds  there  for  ever  rise 

With  a  restless  roar  o'erboiling — 
Rainbows  stooping  from  the  skies 

Charm  the  eyes, 

Beautiful  they  rise, 
Cheering  the  cataracts  to  their  mighty  toiling. 

And  in  that  vision  as  it  passed, 

Was  gathered  terror,  beauty,  power : 
And  still  when  all  has  fled,  too  fast, 
And  I  at  last 

Dream  of  the  dreamy  past, 
My  heart  is  full  when  lingering  on  that  hour. 

Oct.  1838. 


28 


So  a  jamming  Birir. 

TELL  us,  tell  us  whence  thou  comest, 
Little  thing  of  the  rainbow  wing ; 

Tell  us  if  thou  always  hummest : 
If  thou  canst  not  sing. 

Tell  us  when  thou  fell'st  in  love 
With  the  honey-suckle  flower. 

That  thou  comest  every  eve 
To  her  fragrant  bower. 

Or  art  thou  her  guardian  sprite, 

Ever  hearkening  to  her  sigh, 
And  robed  so  bright  with  coloured  light, 

Droppest  from  the  sky  1 

Take  me  to  thy  hidden  nest 
In  the  far  off  realm  of  Faery, 

Where  thou  sinkest  to  thy  rest 
When  thy  wings  are  weary. 

When  a  boy  I  often  dreamed, 

Wondering  what  thou  wast  arid  whence, 
For  thy  quivering  winglets  seemed 

Scarce  like  things  of  sense. 


TO  A  HUMMING  BIRD.  29 

Darting  here  and  darting  there, 

Now  half-buried  in  a  flower, 
Now  away,  and  none  knew  where, 

By  some  mysterious  power. 

When  the  rosy  twilight  came 

Softly  down  the  slumbering  sky, 
Thy  emerald  wing  and  throat  of  flame 

Flashed  before  my  eye. 

Round  the  lattice  and  the  porch,      •« ' 

Ere  the  dew  began  to  fall, 
Kissing  all  the  bashful  buds 

Clambering  up  the  wall. 

But  like  a  suspected  lover, 

Darting  off  into  the  sky, 
Ere  we  could  with  truth  discover 

Half  thy  brilliancy. 

I'll  not  blame  thee,  little  thing, 

That  thou  wast  then  a  mystery, 
When  life  and  thought  were  in  their  spring, 

And  fancy  wandered  free. 

For  I  was  like  thee,  gentle  bird, 

As  wild  and  gay,  as  strange  and  shy, 

And  all  my  hours  were  with  the  flowers, 
Beneath  a  summer  sky. 


30  TO  A  HUMMING  BIRD. 

But  now  that  I've  become  a  man, 
Pd  have  thee  come  and  tell  to  me, 

If  the  boyish  dreams  are  true 
I  have  had  of  thee. 

Tell  me  why  and  whence  thou  comest, 
On  thy  little  rainbow  wing  ; 

Why  unto  the  flowers  thou  hummest, 
And  dost  never  sing. 

But  I  hear  a  sober  spirit 

Talking  as  unto  a  child  ; 
I  must  leave  my  bird  and  listen 

To  its  accents  mild. 

Question  not  all  things  thou  seest ; 

Things  there  are  thou  canst  not  know, 
Learn  from  thy  own  dreams  of  childhood 

Not  too  far  to  go. 

Thou  canst  seldom  track  THE  SPIRIT, 
Whence  or  how  or  why  it  is; 

In  its  unseen  deeps  for  ever 
Are  there  mysteries. 

Be  content  to  see — and  seeing, 
On  the  threshold  pause  and  bow 

To  the  great  all-loving  Being 
With  an  humble  brow  ! 


31 


©n  faring  ffiriumpljant  IHusic. 

THAT  joyous  strain 

Wake,  wake  again ! 
O'er  the  dead  stillness  of  my  soul  it  lingers. 

Ring  out,  ring  out 

The  music-shout ! 
I  hear  the  sounding  of  thy  flying  fingers, 

And  to  my  soul  the  harmony 

Comes  like  a  freshening  sea. 

Again,  again ! 

Farewell,  dull  pain, 
Thou  heartache,  rise  not  while  those  harpstrings  quiver! 

Sad  feelings,  hence ! 

I  feel  a  sense 
Of  a  new  life  come  like  a  rushing  river, 

Freshening  the  fountains  parched  and  dry, 

That  in  my  spirit  lie. 

That  glorious  strain ! 
O,  from  my  brain 


32  ON  HEARING  TRIUMPHANT  MUSIC. 

I  see  the  shadows  flitting  like  scared  ghosts ! 

A  light,  a  light 

Shines  in  to-night, 
O'er  the  good  angels  trooping  to  their  posts, — 

And  the  black  cloud  is  rent  in  twain 

Before  the  ascending  strain. 

It  dies  away, — 

It  would  not  stay, — 
So  sweet,  so  fleeting ;  yet  to  me  it  spake 

Strange  peace  of  mind 

I  could  not  find, 
Before  that  lofty  strain  the  silence  brake. 

So  let  it  ever  come  to  me 

With  an  undying  harmony. 
1838. 


33 


®l)e  Hainbonx 

CHILD  of  the  sunlight, 
Flower  of  the  skies, 

Blooming  in  petals 
Of  heavenly  dyes ; 

Springing  and  growing 
In  thy  garden  of  mist, 

Where  the  sun  hath  so  often 
The  thunder-cloud  kissed. 

Beautiful  flower ! 

So  broad  and  so  round, 
North  and  South  touching, 

Half  underground  ; 

Dark  in  the  middle, 

But  on  thy  border 
Seven  bright  colours 

Ranked  in  their  order  ! 


34 


THE  RAINBOW. 


The  clouds  are  all  weeping, 

But  ere  the  sun  sets, 
He  flings  them  this  flower 

To  chase  their  regrets ; 

And  soon  shall  their  tear-drops 

Be  dry  for  the  day, 
For  they'll  take  up  the  flower, 

And  bear  it  away. 

Still  thou  art  blooming, 

Flower  of  the  skies ; 
Brighter  are  growing 

Thy  heavenly  dyes, 

In  the  dark  halls  of  thunder, 

Outspreading,  alone, 
Thou  reignest  o'er  cloud-land, 

The  heavens  are  thy  own. 

Queen  of  the  meteors, 

Child  of  the  shower, 
I  hail  thee — I'll  name  thee 

Heaven's  sun-flower ! 

Alas,  thou  art  fading, 
Thou'rt  withering  away ! 

Dark  disc  and  bright  petal, 
They  droop  with  the  day. 


THE  RAINBOW. 


35 


The  sun,  in  whose  glory 
Thou  wast  born  in  the  sky, 

Hath  gone  in  the  west, 
And  left  thee  to  die. 

But  hung  in  the  rain-drops 

I'll  see  thee  again, 
When  the  sunset  smiles  out 

On  the  clouds  and  the  rain ! 


36 


emir  tt)t  Soul. 


I  WENT  to  bed  with  Shakspeare's  flowing  numbers 

Within  me  chiming, 
As  I  sank  slowly  to  my  pleasant  slumbers, 

My  thoughts  with  his  were  rhyming. 

Out  of  the  window  I  saw  the  moonlight  shadows 

Go  creeping  slow  ; 
The  sheeted  roofs  of  snow,  —  the  broad  white  meadows 

Lay  silently  below. 

A  few  keen  stars  were  kindly  winking  through 

The  frost-dimmed  panes, 
And  dreaming  Chanticleer  woke  up  and  crew 

Far  o'er  the  desolate  plains. 

But  soon  into  the  void  abyss  of  sleep 

My  mind  did  swoon  ; 
I  saw  no  more  the  broad  house-shadows  creep 

Beneath  the  silent  moon. 

I  woke  ;  the  morning  sun  was  mounting  slowly 

O'er  the  live  earth  :  — 
Say,  fancy,  why  the  shade  of  melancholy 

Which  then  in  me  took  birth  ? 


NIGHT  AND  THE  SOUL.  37 

Why  does  the  night  give  to  the  spirit  wings, 

Which  day  denies  ? 
Ah,  why  this  tyranny  of  outward  things 

When  brightest  shine  the  skies  ? 

My  soul  is  like  the  flower  that  blooms  by  night, 

And  droops  by  day ; 
Yet  may  its  fruit  expand,  though  in  the  light 

Night-blossoms  drop  away. 

The  visions  thus  in  dreamy  stillness  cherished. 

Like  dreams  may  fly  ; 
But  day's  great  acts,  o'er  thoughts  that  nightly  perished, 

May  ripen,  not  to  die. 

Jan.  2d,  1839. 


Non  est  ad  astra  mollis  e  terris  via.— SENECA. 

HE  that  would  earn  the  Poet's  sacred  name, 
Must  write  for  future  as  for  present  ages ; 
Must  learn  to  scorn  the  wreath  of  vulgar  fame. 

And  bear  to  see  cold  critics  o'er  the  pages 
His  burning  brain  hath  wrought,  wreak  wantonly 
Their  dull  and  crabbed  spite,  or  trifling  mockery. 

He  must  not  fret  his  heart  that  men  will  turn 

From  the  deep  wealth  his  soul  hath  freely  given ; 
He  must  not  marvel  that  their  spirits  burn 

With  fire  so  dim  and  cold.     The  God  of  Heaven 
Who  hung  the  golden  stars  in  loftiest  sky, 
Hath  o'er  all  spirits  set  the  Poet's  heart  on  high. 

Star-like  and  high,  his  task  and  glorious  sphere 

Is  to  shine  on  in  love  and  light  unborrowed, 
Yet  looking  down,  to  hold  all  nature  dear, 

And  where  a  heart  hath  deeply  joyed  or  sorrowed, 
To  gather  to  itself  all  images 

Of  mind,  and   heart  and   passion,  and  to  breathe  life 
through  these : 


THE  POET.  39 

And  in  this  life  burning  through  all  his  words, 

And  glancing  back  so  strangely  on  man's  soul 
The  image  of  himself,  the  bard  records 

The  power  which  lifts  all  nature,  till  the  whole 
Swims  in  the  spirit  of  beauty,  arid  the  breath 
Of  earthly  things  is  murmuring  life  untouched  by  death. 

Thus  hovering,  bee-winged,  over  every  flower, 
And  gathering  all  the  nectar  from  its  bosom, 
And  e'en  midst  broken  hearts,  in  grief's  dark  hour, 

Stealing  a  sweetness  from  the  poison  blossom, 
He  garners  up  the  honey  of  his  thought, 
And  yields  unto  the  world  whate'er  his  soul  hath  wrought. 

His  is  the  task  to  clothe  the  dull  and  common 

In  the  rich  garb  of  ever-living  youth  ; 
And  o'er  the  soul  of  child,  or  man,  or  woman, 

And  o'er  the  countenance  of  daily  truth, 
And  o'er  Creation's  face  to  spread  the  light 
Of  beauty,  as  it  shines  in  God's  eternal  sight. 

He  may  not  stoop  to  pander  to  the  herd 
Of  fickle  tastes  and  morbid  appetites : 
He  hath  upon  his  lips  a  holy  word, 

And  he  must  heed  not  if  it  cheers  or  blights, 
So  it  be  Truth,  and  the  deep  earnest  fire 
Of  no  dull  earthward  thought,  nor  any  base  desire. 

His  path  is  through  all  nature  like  the  sun ; 
From  world  to  world,  like  a  recording  spirit ; 


40  THE  POET. 

And  with  all  shapes  and  hues  his  heart  is  one ; 
And  if  a  bird  but  sing,  his  ear  must  hear  it, 
And  the  coarse,  scentless  flower  is  as  a  brother, 
And  the  green  turf  the  gentle  bosom  of  a  mother. 

And  these  he  loves ; — and  with  all  these  the  heart 
Of  frail  humanity,  which  like  a  tremulous  harp 
Hung  in  the  winds,  not  oft  from  storms  apart, 
Sobs  or  rejoices ;  and  when  tempests  sharp 
Sweep  the  tense  strings,  a  "  sweet  sad  music"  hears, 
Where  others  list  no  voice,  nor  heed  the  dropping  tears. 

Who  scorns  the  Poet's  art,  deserves  the  scorn 

Which  he  would  heap  on  others'  heads ;  that  man 
Knows  not  the  sacred  gift  and  calling  born 

Within  the  Poet's  soul  when  life  began : — 
Knows  not  that  he  must  speak,  and  not  for  fame, 
But  that  his  heart  would  wither  else  within  its  flame. 

Time's  wreaths  await  him  :  far  in  future  ages, 

Twined  in  their  amaranth  beauty  they  are  shining, 
And  blessings  rained  upon  his  fragrant  pages, 

And  tears  from  kindred  hearts,  quenching  repining 
With  a  warm  sympathy,  and  smiles  of  joy 
Embalm  a  sacred  life  which  Time  cannot  destroy. 

Oct.  1838. 


41 


ALL  things  in  nature  are  beautiful  types  to  the  soul  that 
can  read  them ; 

Nothing  exists  upon  earth,  but  for  unspeakable  ends, 

Every  object  that  speaks  to  the  senses  was  meant  for  the 
spirit ; 

Nature  is  but  a  scroll ;  God's  handwriting  thereon. 

Ages  ago  when  man  was  pure,  ere  the  flood  overwhelmed 
him, 

While  in  the  image  of  God  every  soul  yet  lived, 

Every  thing  stood  as  a  letter  or  word  of  a  language  fa 
miliar, 

Telling  of  truths  which  now  only  the  angels  can  read. 

Lost  to  man  was  the  key  of  those  sacred  hieroglyphics, 

Stolen  away  by  sin,  till  by  heaven  restored. 

Now  with  infinite  pains  we  here  and  there  spell  out  a 
letter, 

Here  and  there  will  the  sense  feebly  shine  through  the 
dark. 

When  we   perceive  the  light  that  breaks  through  the 
visible  symbol, 

What  exultation  is  ours  !   We  the  discovery  have  made  ! 

Yet  is  the  meaning  the  same  as  when  Adam  lived  sin 
less  in  Eden, 

Only  long  hidden  it  slept,  and  now  again  is  revealed. 
Man  unconsciously  uses   figures  of  speech  every  mo 
ment, 

4 


42  CORRESPONDENCES. 

Little  dreaming  the  cause  why  to  such  terms  he  is  prone, 

Little  dreaming  that  every  thing  here  has  its  own  corre 
spondence 

Folded  within  its  form,  as  in  the  body  the  soul. 

Gleams  of  the  mystery  fall  on  us  still,  though  much  is 
forgotten, 

And  through  our  commonest  speech,  illumine  the  path 
of  our  thoughts. 

Thus  doth  the  lordly  sun  shine  forth  a  type  of  the  God 
head  ; 

Wisdom  and  love  the  beams  that  stream  on  a  darkened 
world. 

Thus  do  the  sparkling  waters  flow,  giving  joy  to  the  de 
sert, 

And  the  fountain  of  life  opens  itself  to  the  thirst. 

Thus  doth  the  word  of  God  distil  like  the  rain  and  the 
dew-drops  ; 

Thus  doth  the  warm  wind  breathe  like  to  the  Spirit  of 
God; 

And  the  green  grass  and  the  flowers  are  signs  of  the 
regeneration. 

O  thou  Spirit  of  Truth,  visit  our  minds  once  more, 
Give  us  to  read  in  letters  of  light  the  language  celestial 
Written  all  over  the  earth,  written  all  over  the  sky — 
Thus  may  we  bring  our  hearts  once  more  to  know  our 

Creator, 

Seeing  in  all  things  around,  types  of  the  Infinite  Mind. 
March,  1839. 


43 


Stye  ®l)tmkrgu0t 

SEE  how  the  black  cloud  comes  sweeping  along  on  its 
terrible  pinions ; 

Nearer  and  wider  it  grows,  darkening  the  blue  of  the 
sky! 

See  up  the  road  how  the  wind  with  the  dust  comes 
sweeping  and  whirling, 

Tossing  the  tops  of  the  trees,  tearing  the  leaves  from 
their  boughs ! 

Now  it  comes  slamming  the  shutters  and  clattering  off 
with  the  shingles, 

Howling  all  round  the  house,  screaming  to  enter  the 
door. 

Now  do  the  men  all  hasten  their  steps  each  one  to  his 
dwelling ; 

Servants  are  bustling  about,  barring  the  windows  and 
doors. 

Women  look  anxiously  out,  while  their  delicate  bosoms 
are  beating, 

Watching  the  gaps  of  the  clouds,  waiting  their  hus 
bands'  return, 

While  with  dull  stare  o'er  the  plain  go  moving  the  in 
dolent  cattle, 

Seeking  the  dangerous  tree  standing  alone  in  the  field. 


44  THE  THUNDERCUST. 

Darker  and  darker  it  grows ;  the  clouds  like  rent  cur 
tains  are  hanging, — 

Sharp  is  the  lightning  flash,  keen  as  a  scimetar  blade. 

Rattling,  bellowing,  booming  along  rolls  the  terrible 
thunder  ; 

Children  look  timidly  up  to  see  where  its  dwelling  may 
be; 

/  once  looked  up  as  they  do,  to  see  where  the  thunder 
was  going, 

But  there  was  nothing  above,  save  the  continuous  clouds. 

Again  there's  a  flash, — a  start, — a  pause, — and  the  ar 
mies  of  heaven 

Seem  to  be  rolling  afield,  trampling  the  clouds  as  a  floor! 

Now  comes  the  rush  of  the  rain ;  like  mist  in  the  wind 
it  is  sweeping ; 

Large  come  the  pattering  drops,  washing  the  panes  of 
the  glass ; 

Now  come  the  rattling  hailstones,  pelting  the  shelterless 
roses, 

Speckling  the  summer  grass,  showering  crystals  abroad, 

A  present  from  winter  to  summer,  a  message  to  tell  her 
he's  coming. 

But  the  storm  ceases  at  length  ;  windows  fly  open  again. 

Rolls  away  in  the  distance  the  muttering  moan  of  the 
thunder, 

Through  the  rifts  of  the  clouds  peeps  the  blue  of  the  sky, 

Warm  and  broad  o'er  the  earth  the  slant  sun  gaily  is 
smiling, 

While  the  bright  bow  in  the  east  gives  us  the  promise 
of  peace. 


45 


anb  ®rwtl). 


WEEKS  and  months  have  rolled  along 
Like  the  surges  of  the  sea, 

Thoughts  and  feelings  sweet  and  deep 
Have  been  guests  with  me ; 

But  my  heart  hath  only  sung 
Hidden  melody. 

By  the  spreading  wing  of  thought 

Poet-dreams  lay  shaded  ; 
As  the  flower-buds  in  the  dawn, 

Ere  the  stars  have  faded, 
Till  refreshed  they  rise  again, 

Pure  and  undegraded. 

Covered  by  the  veil  of  Truth, 
Beauty  in  my  soul  but  slept : 

She  hath  woke  at  times  and  seen 
The  guard  her  sister  kept ; 

Still  she  murmured  in  her  dreams. 
Still  she  smiled  or  wept. 


46 


BEAUTY  AND  TRUTH. 

Many  a  lay  I  left  unsung, 

Or  but  sung  where  none  may  hear, 
In  the  bowers  far  within, 

To  the  spirit's  ear  ; 
Thoughts  and  words  but  tell  thee  half 

Of  the  secrets  there  ; 

Of  the  memories  of  the  past, 

Of  the  world  that  round  thee  lies, 

Of  that  flowery  wilderness 
Where  thy  dreams  arise 

Night  and  day,  and  wing  their  way 
To  their  native  skies  ; 

These,  and  all  the  thousand  hues 
Which  thy  inner  life  assumes, 

From  the  flashes  of  its  joys 
To  its  deepest  glooms, 

Are  a  world  of  mystery 
No  vulgar  light  illumes. 

Wonder  not  then  that  my  lyre 

Hung  by  me  with  slackened  strings  ; 

O,  it  was  too  weak  to  bear 

Thought's  fresh  sweeping  wings  ,* 

Yet  within  there  long  have  been 
Cherished,  hidden  things. 

Beauty  is  a  blossom  rare  ; 
We  may  smell  it  on  the  tree, 


BEAUTY  AND  TRUTH.  47 

But  if  we  should  pluck  it  thence, 

We  no  fruit  should  see ; 
Beauty  is  the  hlossom  sweet, 

Truth  the  fruit,  to  me. 

Thou,  sweet  Poesy,  hast  given 
Many  a  thought  of  rarest  worth, 

Though  thy  spring-like  flush  should  fade 
Dropping  to  the  earth, 

Truth  like  autumn-fruit  shall  come 

With  a  second  birth. 
Oct.  1839. 


48 


®o  i\)t  Aurora  Bormli0. 

ARCTIC  fount  of  holiest  light, 
Springing  through  the  winter  night, 
Spreading  far  behind  yon  hill, 
When  the  earth  lies  dark  and  still, 
Rippling  o'er  the  stars,  as  streams 
O'er  pebbled  beds  in  sunny  gleams ; 
O  for  names,  thou  vision  fair, 
To  express  thy  splendours  rare ! 

Blush  upon  the  cheek  of  night, 
Posthumous,  unearthly  light, 
Dream  of  the  deep  sunken  sun, 
Beautiful,  sleep-walking  one, 
Sister  of  the  moonlight  pale, 
Star-obscuring  meteor  veil, 
Spread  by  heaven's  watching  vestals  ; 
Sender  of  the  gleamy  crystals 
Darting  on  their  arrowy  course 
From  their  glittering  polar  source, 
Upward  where  the  air  doth  freeze 
Round  the  sister  Pleiades  ; — 
Beautiful  and  rare  Aurora, 
In  the  heavens  thou  art  their  Flora, 


TO  THE  AURORA  BOREALIS.  49 

Night-blooming  Cereus  of  the  sky, 
Rose  of  amaranthine  dye, 
Hyacinth  of  purple  light, 
Or  their  Lily  clad  in  white ! 

Who  can  name  thy  wondrous  essence, 
Thou  electric  phosphorescence  ? 
Lonely  apparition  fire ! 
Seeker  of  the  starry  choir ! 
Restless  roamer  of  the  sky, 
Who  hath  won  thy  mystery  ? 
Mortal  science  hath  not  ran 
With  thee  through  the  Empyrean, 
Where  the  constellations  cluster 
Flower-like  on  thy  branching  lustre. 

After  all  the  glare  and  toil, 
And  the  daylight's  fretful  coil, 
Thou  dost  come  so  mild  and  still, 
Hearts  with  love  and  peace  to  fill ; 
As  when  after  revelry 
With  a  talking  company, 
Where  the  blaze  of  many  lights 
Fell  on  fools  and  parasites, 
One  by  one  the  guests  have  gone, 
And  we  find  ourselves  alone ; 
Only  one  sweet  maiden  near, 
With  a  sweet  voice  low  and  clear, 
Whispering  music  in  our  ear, — 
So  thou  talkest  to  the  earth 
After  daylight's  weary  n.irth. 


50  TO  THE  AURORA  BOREALIS. 

Is  not  human  fantasy, 
Wild  Aurora,  likest  thee, 
Blossoming  in  nightly  dreams, 
Like  thy  shifting  meteor-gleams  ? 

But  a  better  type  thou  art 
Of  the  strivings  of  the  heart, 
Reaching  upward  from  the  earth 
To  the  SOUL  that  gave  it  birth. 
When  the  noiseless  beck  of  night 
Summons  out  the  inner  light 
That  hath  hid  its  purer  ray 
Through  the  lapses  of  the  day — 
Then  like  thee,  thou  Northern  Morn, 
Instincts  which  we  deemed  unborn, 
Gushing  from  their  hidden  source 
Mount  upon  their  heavenward  course 
And  the  spirit  seeks  to  be 
Filled  with  God's  eternity. 
Jan.  1840. 


51 


THOUGHT  is  deeper  than  all  speech, 
Feeling  deeper  than  all  thought ; 

Souls  to  souls  can  never  teach 
What  unto  themselves  was  taught. 

We  are  spirits  clad  in  veils ; 

Man  by  man  was  never  seen  ; 
All  our  deep  communing  fails 

To  remove  the  shadowy  screen. 

Heart  to  heart  was  never  known ; 

Mind  with  mind  did  never  meet ; 
We  are  columns  left  alone, 

Of  a  temple  once  complete. 

Like  the  stars  that  gem  the  sky, 
Far  apart,  though  seeming  near, 

In  our  light  we  scattered  lie ; 
All  is  thus  but  starlight  here. 

What  is  social  company 

But  a  babbling  summer  stream  ? 
What  our  wise  philosophy 

But  the  glancing  of  a  dream  ? 


ENOSIS. 


Only  when  the  sun  of  love 

Melts  the  scattered  stars  of  thought  ; 
Only  when  we  live  above 

What  the  dim-eyed  world  hath  taught ; 

Only  when  our  souls  are  fed 

By  the  Fount  which  gave  them  birth, 
And  by  inspiration  led, 

Which  they  never  drew  from  earth, 

We  like  parted  drops  of  rain 
Swelling  till  they  meet  and  run, 

Shall  be  all  absorbed  again, 
Melting,  flowing  into  one. 


Feb.  1840. 


53 


(Entromion. 


YES,  it  is  the  queenly  moon 

Walking  through  her  starred  saloon, 

Silvering  all  she  looks  upon : 

I  am  her  Endymion  ; 

For  by  night  she  comes  to  me, — 

O,  I  love  her  wondrously. 

She  into  my  window  looks, 
As  I  sit  with  lamp  and  books, 
And  the  night-breeze  stirs  the  leaves, 
And  the  dew  drips  down  the  eaves ; 
O'er  my  shoulder  peepeth  she, 
O,  she  loves  me  royally  ! 

Then  she  tells  me  many  a  tale, 
With  her  smile,  so  sheeny  pale, 
Till  my  soul  is  overcast 
With  such  dream-light  of  the  past, 
That  I  saddened  needs  must  be, 
And  I  love  her  mournfully. 


54  ENDYMION. 

Oft  I  gaze  up  in  her  eyes, 

Raying  light  through  winter  skies  ; 

Far  away  she  saileth  on  ; 

I  am  no  Endymion  ; 

O,  she  is  too  bright  for  me, 

And  I  love  her  hopelessly  ! 

Now  she  comes  to  me  again, 
And  we  mingle  joy  and  pain, 
Now  she  walks  no  more  afar, 
Regal,  with  train-bearing  star, 
But  she  bends  and  kisses  me — 
O,  we  love  now  mutually  ! 

July,  1840. 


55 


flit)  £[}ongt)t0. 


are  the  thoughts  that  come  to  me 

In  my  lonely  musing, 
And  they  drift  so  bright  and  swift, 

There's  no  time  for  choosing 
Which  to  follow,  for  to  leave 

Any,  seems  a  losing. 

When  they  come,  they  come  in  flocks, 

As,  on  glancing  feather, 
Startled  birds  rise  one  by  one 

In  autumnal  weather, 
Waking  one  another  up 

From  the  sheltering  heather. 

Some  to  merry  that  I  laugh, 

Some  again  are  serious ; 
Some  90  doll,  their  least  approach 

Is  enough  to  weary  us  ; 
Others  ffit  Kke  -heeled  ghost* 

Awful  and  mysterious* 


56  MY  THOUGHTS. 

There  are  thoughts  that  o'er  me  steal 
Like  the  day  when  dawning ; 

Great  thoughts  winged  with  melody, 
Common  utterance  scorning, 

Moving  to  an  inward  tune, 
And  an  inward  morning. 

Some  have  dark  and  drooping  wings, 
Children  all  of  sorrow  ; 

Some  are  as  gay  as  if  to-day 

Could  see  no  cloudy  morrow, 

And  yet  like  light  and  shade  they  each 
Must  from  the  other  borrow. 

One  by  one  they  spread  their  wings 
On  their  destined  mission  ; 

One  by  one  I  see  them  fade 
With  no  hopeless  vision, 

For  they've  led  me  on  a  step 
To  their  home  Elysian. 
Aug.  1840. 


57 


YE  bards,  ye  prophets,  ye  sages, 

Read  to  me  if  ye  can, 
That  which  hath  been  the  riddle  of  ages, 

Read  me  the  riddle  of  MAN. 

Then  came  the  bard  with  his  lyre, 
And  the  sage  with  his  pen  and  scroll, 

And  the  prophet  with  his  eye  of  fire, 
To  unriddle  a  human  soul. 

But  the  soul  stood  up  in  its  might ; 

Its  stature  they  could  not  scan ; 
And  it  rayed  out  a  dazzling  mystic  light, 

And  shamed  their  wisest  plan. 

Yet  sweetly  the  bard  did  sing, 

And  learnedly  talked  the  sage, 
And  the  seer  flashed  by  with  his  lightning  wing, 

Soaring  beyond  his  age. 
5 


58  THE  RIDDLE. 

Of  life-fire  snatched  from  Jove ; 

Of  a  forfeited  age  of  gold ; 
Of  providence  and  deathless  love 

The  chaunting  minstrel  told. 

The  sage  of  wisdom  spoke, 

Of  doctrines,  books  and  schools, 
And  how  when  they  broke  from  learning's  yoke, 
.  All  men  were  turned  to  fools. 

And  the  prophet  told  of  heaven, 

And  the  golden  age  to  come — 
"  Ye  must  follow  the  sun  through  the  gates  of  even, 

And  he  will  lead  you  home." 

Many  a  dream  they  saw, 

And  many  a  creed  did  build, 
Each  in  its  turn  was  truth  and  law, 

While  they  who  sought  were  filled. 

But  the  soul  stood  up  still  freed 

From  the  prison  of  each  plan  ; 
He  was  a  riddle  they  could  not  read, 

This  simple-seeming  Man. 

He  stood  in  his  mystery  still, 

Of  ever-changing  light; 
Many,  yet  one,  he  baffled  their  skill, 

And  put  their  dreams  to  flight. 


THE  RIDDLE.  59 

His  feet  on  the  earth  were  planted, 

His  head  o'er  the  stars  rose  dim, 
And  ever  unto  himself  he  chaunted 

A  half-articulate  hymn. 

In  words  confused  and  broken 

He  chaunted  his  mystic  dream ; 
And  but  half  of  the  half  his  lips  had  spoken, 

Floated  on  time's  dull  stream. 

They  who  heard  of  the  song  which  he 

Sang  on  from  time  to  time, 
Gave  it  the  name  Philosophy, 

And  echoed  the  olden  rhyme. 

But  their  systems  all  are  vain, 

And  the  o'erflowing  soul 
Sweeps  lyre  and  song  to  the  dark  inane, 

And  blots  the  old  sage's  scroll. 

And  Man  the  great  riddle  is  still 

Unread  to  the  dreamer's  eye — 
We  are  ever  afloat,  as  we  ply  our  skill 

On  the  sea  of  mystery. 


60 


Colour  emir  Cigfyt. 

THE  word  unto  the  nations  came, 

And  shone  o'er  many  a  darkened  spot, 

The  pure  white  lustre  of  the  flame 
The  darkness  comprehended  not ; 

Till  broken  into  coloured  light 

Within  the  prism  of  the  mind, 
It  traced  upon  the  murky  night 

A  rainbow-arch  with  hues  defined. 

And  where  the  narrowed  sunbeams  turned 
To  colours  all  distinct,  yet  blended ; 

Thoughts  glanced  and  struggling  instincts  yearned, 
The  darkness  dimly  comprehended. 

When  shall  the  pure  ethereal  fire 

Glow  with  a  white  interior  heat  ? 
When  shall  the  truth  of  God  inspire 

The  shaping  soul  with  light  complete  ? 

Never,  until  a  second  youth 

Renews  the  world — then  may  we  see 

The  Primal  Light — the  unbroken  Truth, 

And  gather  life  eternally  ! 
Sept.  1840. 


61 


AMID  the  watches  of  the  windy  night, 

A  poet  sat  and  listened  to  the  flow 

Of  his  own  changeful  thoughts — until  there  passed 

A  vision  by  him,  murmuring  as  it  moved, 

A  wild  and  mystic  lay,  to  which  his  thoughts 

And  pen  kept  time — and  thus  the  measure  ran : 

All  is  but  as  it  seems ; 

The  round  green  earth 
With  river  and  glen  ; 

The  din  and  the  mirth 
Of  the  busy,  busy  men ; 

The  world's  great  fever 

Throbbing  for  ever  ; 

The  creed  of  the  sage, 

The  hope  of  the  age, 

All  things  we  cherish, 

All  that  live  and  all  that  perish, 
These  are  but  inner  dreams. 


62  INWORLD. 

The  great  world  goeth  on 

To  thy  dreaming ; 
To  thee  alone 
Hearts  are  making  their  moan 

Eyes  are  streaming. 

Thine  is  the  white  moon  turning  night  to  day. 
Thine  is  the  dark  wood  sleeping  in  her  ray ; 
Thee  the  winter  chills, 
Thee  the  springtime  thrills, 
All  things  nod  to  thee, 
All  things  come  to  see 

If  thou  art  dreaming  on ; 
If  thy  dream  should  break, 
And  thou  shouldst  awake, 

All  things  would  be  gone. 

Nothing  is,  if  thou  art  not. 
From  thee  as  from  a  root 
The  blossoming  stars  upshoot, 
The  flower-cups  drink  the  rain : 
Joy  and  grief  and  weary  pain 
Spring  aloft  from  thee, 
And  toss  their  branches  free ; 
Thou  art  under,  over  all ; 
Thou  dost  hold  and  cover  all; 
Thou  art  Atlas — thou  art  Jove. 

The  mightiest  truth 

Hath  all  its  youth 
From  thy  enveloping  thought — 
Thy  thought  itself  lay  in  thy  earliest  love. 


INWORLD.  63 

Nature  keeps  time  to  thee 

With  voice  unbroken  ; 
Still  doth  she  rhyme  to  thee 

When  thou  hast  spoken. 
When  the  sun  shines  to  thee, 

'Tis  thy  own  joy 
Opening  mines  to  thee 

Nought  can  destroy. 
When  the  blast  moans  to  thee 

Still  doth  the  wind 
Echo  the  tones  to  thee 

Of  thy  own  mind ; 
Laughter  but  saddens  thee 

When  thou  art  sad ; 
Least  things  will  gladden  thee 

When  thou  art  glad. 
Life  is  not  life  to  thee 

But  as  thou  livest ; 
Labour  is  strife  to  thee 

When  thou  least  strivest. 

More  did  the  Spirit  sing,  and  made  the  night 
Most  musical  with  inward  melodies, 
But  vanished  soon  and  left  the  listening  bard 
Wrapt  in  unearthly  silence,  till  the  morn 
Reared  up  the  screen  that  shuts  the  spirit  world 
From  loftiest  poet  and  from  wisest  sage. 


64 


THE  sun  was  shining  on  the  busy  earth ; 

All  men  and  things  were  moving  on  their  way, 

The  same  old  way  which  we  call  life ;  the  Soul 

Shrank  from  the  giant  grasp  of  Time  and  Space 

Yet,  for  it  was  her  dreamy  hour,  half  yielded 

To  the  omnipotent  delusion,  and  looked  out 

On  the  broad  glare  of  things,  and  felt  herself 

Dwindling  before  the  Universe.     Then  came 

Unto  the  Bard 

Another  Spirit  with  another  voice, 

And  sang : 

Said  he,  that  all  but  seems  ? 

Said  he,  the  world  is  void  and  lonely — 
A  strange,  vast  crowd  of  dreams 

Coming  to  thee  only  ? 
And  that  thy  feeble  soul 
Hath  such  a  strong  control 
O'er  sovereign  space,  and  sovereign  time, 
And  all  their  train  sublime  1 

Said  he,  thou  art  the  Eye 

Reflecting  all  that  is — 
The  Ear  that  hears,  while  it  creates 

All  sounds  and  harmonies — 


OUTWORLD.  65 

The  central  sense  that  bides  amid 

All  shows,  and  turns  them  to  realities  ? 

Listen,  mortal,  while  the  sound 

Of  this  life  intense  is  flowing ! 
Dost  thou  find  all  things  around 

Go  as  thou  art  going  ? 
Dost  thou  dream  that  thou  art  free, 
Making,  destroying  all  that  thou  dost  see, 
In  the  unfettered  might  of  thy  soul's  liberty  ? 

Lo,  an  atom  troubles  thee, 
One  bodily  fibre  crushes  thee, 
One  little  nerve  shall  madden  thee, 
One  drop  of  blood  be  death  to  thee. 

Art  thou  but  a  withering  leaf, 
For  a  summer  season  brief 

Clinging  to  the  tree, 

Till  the  winds  of  circumstance 

Whirling  in  their  hourly  dance 

Prove  too  strong  for  thee  ? 

Art  thou  but  a  speck,  a  mote, 

In  this  system  universal  1 
Art  thou  but  a  passing  note 

Woven  in  the  great  Rehearsal  ? 
Canst  thou  roll  back  the  tide  of  thought, 

And  unmake  the  creed  of  the  age, 
And  unteach  the  wisdom  taught 

By  the  prophet  and  the  sage  ? 


66  OUTWORLD. 

Art  thou  but  a  cloudy  shadow 
Chasing  o'er  a  meadow  ? 

The  great  world  goes  on, 

Spite  of  thy  dreaming. 
Not  to  thee  alone 
Hearts  are  making  their  moan, 

And  teardrops  streaming. 
And  the  mighty  voice  of  Nature 
Is  thy  parent,  not  thy  creature, 
Is  no  pupil,  but  thy  teacher. 
And  the  world  would  still  move  on 
Were  thy  soul  for  ever  flown. 

For  while  thou  dreamest  on,  enfolded 

In  Nature's  wide  embrace, 
All  thy  life  is  daily  moulded 

By  her  informing  grace. 
And  Time  and  Space  must  reign 

And  rule  o'er  thee  for  ever. 
And  the  Outworld  lift  its  chain 
From  off  thy  spirit  never — 
But  in  the  dream  of  thy  half-waking  fever 
Thou  shalt  be  mocked  with  gleam  and  show 
Of  truths  thou  pinest  for,  and  yet  canst  never  know. 

And  then  the  Spirit  fled,  and  left  the  Bard 

Still  wondering — for  he  felt  that  voices  twain 

Had  come  from  different  spheres  with  different  truths, 

That  seemed  at  war,  and  yet  agreed  in  one. 


67 


©com. 


"  In  a  season  of  calm  weather 
Though  inland  far  we  be, 
Our  souls  have  sight  of  that  immortal  sea 
That  brought  us  hither, 
Can  in  a  moment  travel  thither, 
And  see  the  children  sport  upon  the  shore, 
And  hear  the  mighty  waters  rolling  evermore." 

WORDSWORTH. 

TELL  me,  brother,  what  are  we  1 — 
Spirits  bathing  in  the  sea 

Of  Deity ! 

Half  afloat  and  half  on  land, 
Wishing  much  to  leave  the  strand, — 
Standing,  gazing  with  devotion, 
Yet  afraid  to  trust  the  Ocean — 

Such  are  we. 

Wanting  love  and  holiness 
To  enjoy  the  wave's  caress  ; 
Wanting  faith  and  heavenly  hope, 
Buoyantly  to  bear  us  up  ; 
Yet  impatient  in  our  dwelling, 
When  we  hear  the  ocean  swelling, 


THE  OCEAN. 

And  in  every  wave  that  rolls 
We  behold  the  happy  souls 
Peacefully,  triumphantly 
Swimming  on  the  smiling  sea, 
Then  we  linger  round  the  shore, 
Lovers  of  the  earth  no  more. 

Once, — 'twas  in  our  infancy, 
We  were  drifted  by  this  sea 
To  the  coast  of  human  birth, 
To  this  body  and  this  earth : 
Gentle  were  the  hands  that  bore 
Our  young  spirits  to  the  shore ; 
Gentle  lips  that  bade  us  look 
Outward  from  our  cradle  nook 
To  the  spirit-bearing  ocean 
With  such  wonder  and  devotion, 
As  each  stilly  Sabbath  day, 
We  were  led  a  little  way, 
Where  we  saw  the  waters  swell 
Far  away  from  inland  dell, 
And  received  with  grave  delight 
Symbols  of  the  Infinite  : — 
Then  our  home  was  near  the  sea ; 
"  Heaven  was  round  our  infancy  :" 
Night  and  day  we  heard  the  waves 
Murmuring  by  us  to  their  caves  ; — 
Floated  in  unconscious  life, 
With  no  later  doubts  at  strife, 
Trustful  of  the  upholding  Power 
Who  sustained  us  hour  by  hour. 


THE  OCEAN.  69 

Now  we've  wandered  from  the  shore, 
Dwellers  by  the  sea  no  more  ; 
Yet  at  times  there  comes  a  tone 
Telling  of  the  visions  flown, 
Sounding  from  the  distant  sea, 
Where  we  left  our  purity  ; 
Distant  glimpses  of  the  surge 
Lure  us  down  to  ocean's  verge ; 
There  we  stand  with  vague  distress, 
Yearning  for  the  measureless ; 
By  half-wakened  instincts  driven, 
Half  loving  earth,  half  loving  heaven, 
Fearing  to  put  off  and  swim, 
Yet  impelled  to  turn  to  Him 
In  whose  life  we  live  and  move, 
And  whose  very  name  is  Love. 

Grant  me  courage,  Holy  One, 
To  become  indeed  thy  son, 
And  in  thee,  thou  Parent-Sea, 
Live  and  love  eternally. 


70 


JHtntr 


FROM  morn  till  night  the  old  man  sitteth  still  ; 

Deep  quenched  in  darkness  lie  all  earthly  sights  ; 
He  hath  not  known  since  childhood  swayed  his  will, 

The  outward  shows  of  open-eyed  delights  ; 

• 
But  in  an  inner  world  of  thought  he  liveth, 

A  deep,  pure  realm  of  praise  and  lowly  prayer, 
Where  faith  from  sight  no  pension  e'er  receiveth, 

But  groweth  only  from  the  All-true  and  Fair. 

That  universal  Soul  who  is  the  being, 

The  reason  and  the  heart  of  men  on  earth, 

Shineth  so  broad  o'er  him,  that  though  not  seeing, 
Fie  walketh  where  the  morning  hath  its  birth. 

He  travelleth  where  the  upper  springs  flow  on  ; 

He  heareth  harmonies  from  angel  choirs  ; 
He  seeth  Uriel  standing  in  the  sun, 

He  dwelleth  up  among  the  heavenly  fires; 


THE  BLIND  SEER.  71 

And  yet  he  loveth,  as  we  all  do  love 

To  hear  the  restless  hum  of  common  life ; 

Though  rooted  in  the  spirit-soil  above, 

His  leaves  and  flowers  do  bud  amid  the  strife 

Of  all  this  weary  world,  and  shine  more  fair 
Than  sympathies  which  have  no  inward  root, 

Which  open  fast,  but  shrink  in  bleaker  air, 
And  dropping,  leave  behind  no  winter  fruit. 

But  here  are  winter  fruits  and  blossoms  too — 
Those  silver  hairs  o'er  bended  shoulders  curled  ; 

That  smile — that  thoughtful  brow — ope  to  the  view 
Some  symbol  of  the  old  man's  inner  world. 

O  who  would  love  this  outer  sphere  of  sense, 

Though  steeped  in  joy  and  ruled  by  Beauty's  queen, 

If  it  were  purchased  at  the  dear  expense 

Of  losing  all  which  souls  like  his  have  seen  ? 

Nay,  if  we  judged  aright,  this  glorious  All, 

Which  fills,  like  thought,  our  never-doubting  eyes, 

Might  with  its  firm-built  grandeur,  sink  and  fall 
Before  one  ray  of  Soul-realities. 


72 


STAR  after  star  looked  glimmering  down, 

As  in  the  night  he  sat  alone, 
And  in  the  firmament  of  mind 

Thought  after  thought  upon  him  shone. 

An  inner  sky  did  sometimes  seem 

To  show  him  truths  of  deepest  worth, 

Which  custom's  daylight  long  had  dimmed, 
Or  sense  had  clouded  in  their  birth. 

And  well  he  knew  the  world  was  dark, 
And  few  would  hear  what  he  could  tell, 

And  fewer  still  would  sit  with  him, 
And  watch  that  sky  he  loved  so  well. 

One  solitary  soul  he  seemed ; 

And  yet  he  knew  that  all  might  see 
The  orbs  that  showed  to  him  alone 

The  fulness  of  their  majesty. 

He  knew  that  all  the  silent  scorn 

Which  now  in  meekness  he  must  bear, 

Would  change  to  worship  when  his  ear 
No  longer  was  a  listener  there ; 


THE  STAR-GAZER.  73 

And,  when  the  cold  and  rugged  clod 

Had  pressed  the  brain  that  toiled  for  them, 

That  on  his  statue  men  would  hang 
The  unavailing  diadem. 

All  this  he  felt,  and  yet  his  faith 

In  uncomplaining  silence  kept 
With  starry  Truth  its  vigil  brave, 

While  all  his  brothers  round  him  slept. 

They  slept, — and  would  not  wake — until 
The  distant  lights  that  fixed  his  gaze 

Came  moving  on,  and  spread  abroad 
The  glory  of  a  noontide  blaze. 

And  then  they  started  from  their  dreams, 

And  slowly  oped  their  leaden  eyes, 
And  saw  the  light  whose  splendours  now 

Were  darting  through  the  morning  skies. 

Then  turned  and  sought  for  him  whose  name 
They  in  their  sleep  had  mocked  and  cursed  ;— 

But  he  had  left  them  long  before 
The  vision  on  their  souls  had  burst. 

And  underneath  the  sod  he  lay, 

Now  all  bedewed  with  fruitless  tears, 

And  they  could  only  deck  the  tomb 
That  told  of  his  neglected  years. 
6 


74 


®l)e  Artist. 

HE  breathed  the  air  of  realms  enchanted, 
He  bathed  in  seas  of  dreamy  light, 

And  seeds  within  his  soul  were  planted 

That  bore  us  flowers  for  use  too  bright 
Unless  it  were  to  stay  some  wandering  spirit's  flight. 

With  us  he  lived  a  common  life, 

And  wore  a  plain  familiar  name, 
And  meekly  dared  the  vulgar  strife 

That  to  inferior  spirits  carne — 
Yet  bore  a  pulse  within,  the  world  could  never  tame. 

And  skies  more  soft  than  Italy's 

Their  wealth  of  light  around  him  spread, 

And  tones  were  his,  and  only  his — 

So  sweetly  floating  o'er  his  head — 
None  knew  at  what  rich  feast  the  favoured  guest  was  fed. 

They  could  not  guess  or  reason  why 

He  chose  the  ways  of  poverty ; 
They  read  no  wisdom  in  his  eye, 

But  scorned  the  holy  mystery 
That  brooded  o'er  his  thoughts  and  gave  him  power  to  see. 


THE  ARTIST.  75 

But  all  unveiled  the  world  of  Sense 

An  inner  meaning  had  for  him, 
And  Beauty  loved  in  innocence, 

Not  sought  in  passion  or  in  whim, 
Within  a  soul  so  pure  could  ne'er  grow  dull  and  dim. 

And  in  this  vision  did  he  toil, 

And  in  this  Beauty  lived  and  died. — 

And  think  not  that  he  left  his  soil 

By  no  rich  tillage  sanctified ; 
In  olden  times  he  might  have  been  his  country's  pride. 

And  yet  may  be — though  he  hath  gone— 

For  spirits  of  so  fine  a  mould 
Lose  not  the  glory  they  have  won  ; 

Their  memory  turns  not  pale  and  cold — 
While  Love  lives  on,  the  lovely  never  can  grow  old. 


76 


KINDLY  he  did  receive  us  where  he  dwelt, 
And  in  his  smile  arid  eye  I  inly  felt 
The  self-same  power,  the  influence  mild  and  grand, 
Which  o'er  our  kindled  souls  had  held  command, 
When  to  the  page  his  mind  had  wrought  we  turned. 
But  now  anew  our  hearts  within  us  burned, 
As  side  by  side,  we  hearkened  to  his  talk, 
Or  rambled  with  him  in  his  morning  walk. 
Unveiled  he  stood ;  and  beautiful  he  moved 
Amid  home-sympathies  ; — a  heart  that  loved 
Nature  as  dearly  as  a  gentle  mother, 
And  man  as  a  great  spirit  and  a  brother. 
In  the  clear  deepening  river  of  his  thought, 
Welling  in  tones  and  words  by  nature  taught ; 
In  the  mild  lustre  of  the  long-lashed  eye, 
And  round  the  delicate  lips,  how  artlessly 
Broke  forth  the  intuitions  of  his  mind. 
I  listened  and  I  looked,  but  could  not  find 
Courage  or  words  to  tell  my  sympathy 
With  all  this  deep-toned  wisdom  borne  to  me. 
Still  less  could  I  declare  how,  ere  I  knew 
The  spell  his  visible  presence  o'er  me  threw, 
The  page  his  inspiration  wrought,  had  warmed 
Daily  to  life  the  faith  within  me  formed 


THE  PROPHET  UNVEILED.  77 

Of  Nature's  great  relationship  to  man ; 
So  far  his  speed  of  sight  my  own  outran. 
And  if  I  spoke,  it  seemed  to  me  my  thought 
Was  but  a  pale  and  broken  reflex  caught 
From  his  own  orb ;  so  silently  I  sat 
Drinking  in  truth  and  beauty.     Yet  there  was  that 
In  his  serene  and  sympathizing  smile, 
Which  as  I  listened,  told  me  all  the  while 
That  nearer  intercourse  might  give  me  right 
To  come  within  the  region  of  his  light ; 
Not  to  be  dazzled,  moth-like,  by  his  flame, 
But  go  as  independent  as  I  came. 

And  once  again  within  the  lighted  hall, 
Where  Mind  and  Beauty  gathered  to  his  call, 
We  heard  him  speak ;  upon  his  eye  and  tongue, 
Dropping  their  golden  thoughts  we  mutely  hung. 
Aurora  shootings  mixed  with  summer  lightning ; 
Meteors  of  truth  through  beauty's  sky  still  bright'ning; 
Phoenix-lived  things  born  amid  stars  and  flashes, 
And  rising  rocket-winged  from  their  own  ashes ; 
Pearls  prodigally  rained,  too  large  and  fast ; 
Rich  music-tones  too  sweet  and  rare  to  last — 
Such  seemed  his  natural  utterance  as  it  passed. 
And  yet  the  steadier  light  that  shone  alway, 
Looked  through  these  meteors  in  their  rapid  play, 
And  warmed  around  us  like  the  sunlight  mild, 
And  Truth  in  Beauty's  robes  stood  by  and  smiled. 

Dec.  1839. 


7S 


Stlena  anir  Speed). 

A  LITTLE  pleasant  bubbling  up 

From  the  unfathomable  ocean  ; 
A  little  glimmering  from  the  unmeasured  sun 
A  little  noise,  a  little  motion — 
Such  is  human  speech  ; 
I  to  thee  would  teach 
A  truth  diviner,  deeper 

Than  this  empty  strife ; 
For  thou  art  the  keeper 
Of  the  wells  of  life. 

Godlike  Silence  !  I  would  woo  thee — 

Leave  behind  this  thoughtless  clamour ; 
Journey  upward,  upward  to  thee, 

Put  on  thy  celestial  armour. 
Let  us  speak  no  more, 

Let  us  be  Divinities; 
Let  poor  mortals  prate  and  roar ; 

Know  we  not  how  small  it  is 
To  be  ever  uttering, 

Babbling  and  muttering? 
Thou  canst  never  tell  the  whole 

Of  thine  unmanageable  Soul. 


SILENCE  AND  SPEECH.  79 

Deeper  than  thy  deepest  speech, 

Wiser  than  thy  wisest  thought, 
Something  lies  thou  canst  not  reach, 

Never  to  the  surface  brought. 

Masses  without  form  or  make, 
Sleeping  gnomes  that  never  wake ; 
Genii  bound  by  magic  spells  ; 
Fairies  and  all  miracles  ; 
Shapes  unclassed  and  wonderful, 
Huge  and  dire  and  beautiful ; 
Dreams  and  hopes  and  prophecies 
Struggling  to  ope  their  eyes  ; 
All  that  is  most  vast  and  dim, 
All  that  is  most  good  and  bad, 
Demon,  sprite  and  cherubim, 
Spectral  troops  and  angels  glad  ; 
Things  that  stir  not,  yet  are  living, 
Up  to  the  light  for  ever  striving, 
Thoughts  whose  faces  are  averted, 
Guesses  dwelling  in  the  dark ; 
Instincts  not  to  be  diverted 
From  their  ever-present  mark — 
Such  thy  inner  Life,  O  Man, 
Which  no  outward  eye  may  scan, 
Wonderful,  most  wonderful, 
Terrible  and  beautiful ! 
Speak  not,  argue  not— but  live  ! 
Reins  to  thy  true  nature  give, 
And  in  each  unconscious  act 
Forth  will  shine  the  hidden  fact. 


80  SILENCE  AND  SPEECH. 

Yet  this  smooth  surface  thou  must  break ; 
Thou  must  give  as  well  as  take. 

Why  this  Silence  long  and  deep  ? 
Dost  thou  wake  or  dost  thou  sleep  ? 
Up  and  speak — persuade  and  teach  ! 
What  so  beautiful  as  Speech  ? 

Sing  us  the  old  Song, 

Be  our  warbling  bird ; 
Thou  hast  sealed  thy  lips  too  long 
And  the  world  must  all  go  wrong, 

If  it  hath  no  spoken  word. 

Out  with  it — thou  hast  it ! 

We  would  feel  it,  taste  it. 

Be  our  Delphic  Oracle, 

Let  the  Memnon  statue  sing, 

Let  the  music  rise  and  swell ; 
We  will  enter  the  ring 
Where  the  silent  ones  dwell, 
And  we  will  compel 
The  Powers  that  we  seek 

Through  us  to  sing,  through  us  to  speak. 
And  hark  !  Apollo's  lyre  ! 
Young  Mercury  with  words  of  fire ! 

And  Jove — the  serene  air,  hath  thundered, 

As  when  by  old  Prometheus, 

The  lightning  stolen  for  our  use 

From  out  his  sky  was  plundered ! 

Man  to  his  SOUL  draws  near, 

And  Silence  now  hath  all  to  fear ; 


SILENCE  AND  SPEECH.  81 

Her  realm  is  invaded, 

Her  temples  degraded — 
For  Eloquence  like  a  strong  and  turbid  river 
Is  flowing  through  her  cities.     On  for  ever 
The  mighty  waves  are  dashing,  and  the  sound 
Disturbs  the  Deities  profound. 

God  through  man  is  speaking, 

And  hearts  and  souls  are  waking. 
Each  to  each  his  visions  tells, 
And  all  rings  out  like  a  chime  of  bells ; 
THE  WORD,  THE  WORD,  thou  hast  it  now  ! 

Silence  befits  the  gods  above, 
But  Speech  is  the  star  on  manhood's  brow, 
The  sign  of  truth— the  sign  of  love. 


Jan.  1842. 


82 


f'tctti  JTotcs. 

WHERE  is  he  that  loves  the  woods, 

At  home  in  all  green  solitudes ; 

He  whom  fashion,  lame,  or  pelf 

Have  not  prisoned  in  himself, 

He  who  leaveth  friend  and  book, 

And  findeth  both  beside  a  brook  ; 

Heareth  wisdom  musical 

In  a  low-toned  waterfall, 

Or  the  pine  grove's  breezy  rush, 

Or  the  trilling  of  a  thrush, 

Or,  when  nights  are  dark  and  still, 

In  a  plaintive  whip-poor-will ; 

Or  when  morning  suns  are  bright, 

Seeth  truths  of  quiet  light 

In  the  landscape  green  and  warm 

Of  the  sloping  upland  farm  ! 

Let  him  come  and  be  my  friend 

Till  these  summer  months  shall  end. 

In  this  leafy  sylvan  scene, 

Where  Nature  loves  no  hue  but  green, 

Nor  will  let  a  sound  be  heard 

But  of  humble-bee  or  bird, 


FIELD  NOTES. 

Or  a  tall  and  spreading  tree 

Rustling  still  and  lonesomely, 

Or  afar  the  cattle's  bell, 

Tinkling  in  some  hidden  dell, 

We  will  leave  house,  man,  and  street, 

For  companionship  more  sweet : 

Children  of  the  summer  air, 

We  will  be  as  once  we  were, — 

Two  unconscious  idle  boys, 

And  renew  Arcadian  joys  ; 

Stumbling  in  our  hill-side  walks 

O'er  mushrooms  and  mullein  stalks ; 

Brushing  with  our  feet  away 

Spider-webs  of  silken  gray, 

Gemmed  with  dew  athwart  the  meadows, 

That  sleep  in  the  long  morning  shadows ; 

Roaming  by  some  grassy  stream, 

Where,  as  in  some  earlier  dream, 

Well-known  flowers  all  tall  and  rank 

Blossom  on  the  marshy  bank  ; 

Vines  that  creep,  and  spikes  that  nod, 

Golden-helmet,  golden-rod, 

Orchis,  milk-weed,  elder-bloom, 

Brake,  sweet-fern  and  meadow-broom, 

Star-shaped  mosses  on  the  rocks, 

Golden  butter-cups  in  flocks, 

Tossing  as  the  breeze  sweeps  by 

To  the  blue  deeps  of  the  sky ; 

All  those  scentless  seedy  flowers 

That  chronicle  the  summer  hours : 


84  FIELD  NOTES. 

These  shall  be  our  company. 

The  soliloquizing  bee 

Hath  no  need  of  such  as  we : 

We  will  let  him  wander  free : 

He  must  labour  hotly  yet, 

Ere  the  summer  sun  shall  set. 

Grumbling  little  merchant  man, 

Deft  Utilitarian, 

Dunning  all  the  idle  flowers, 

Short  to  him  must  be  the  hours, 

As  he  steereth  swiftly  over 

Fields  of  warm  sweet-scented  clover. 

Leave  him  to  his  own  delight, 

Little  insect  Benthamite : 

Idler  like  ourselves  alone 

Shall  we  woo  to  be  our  crone. 

But  for  him  whose  cloudy  looks 
Are  bent  on  law  or  ledger-books, 
Prisoned  among  the  heated  bricks, 
The  slave  of  traffic,  toil  and  tricks ; 
For  him  who  worshippeth  alone 
Beneath  the  drowsy  preacher's  drone, 
Where  creed  and  text  like  fetters  cling 
Upon  the  spirit's  struggling  wing; 
For  him  whom  Fashion's  laws  have  tamed, 
Till  the  sweet  heavens  are  nigh  ashamed 
To  lead  him  from  his  poisoned  food 
Into  their  healthy  solitude ; 
Such  as  these  we  leave  behind, 
Blind  companions  of  the  blind. 


FIELD  NOTES.  85 

Little  know  they  of  the  balm, 
And  the  beauty,  wise  and  calm, 
Treasured  up  at  Nature's  breast, 
For  the  sick  heart  that  needeth  rest. 
He  who  in  childlike  love  hath  quaffed 
Of  her  sweet  mother-milk  one  draught, 
Hath  drank  immortal  drops  as  bright 
As  those  which  (tales  of  eld  recite) 
Untasted  fell  one  starry  night 
From  the  fair  bosom  of  heaven's  queen, 
Sprinkling  the  sky  with  milky  sheen: 
From  the  world's  tasteless  springs  he  turns ; 
His  soul  with  thirst  diviner  burns, 
And  nursed  upon  the  lap  of  Truth, 
Wins  once  again  the  gift  of  youth. 

Him  we  will  seek,  and  none  but  him, 

Whose  inward  sense  hath  not  grown  dim  ; 

WThose  soul  is  steeped  in  Nature's  tinct, 

And  to  the  Universal  linked  ; 

Who  loves  the  beauteous  Infinite 

With  deep  and  ever  new  delight, 

And  carrieth  where'er  he  goes, 

The  inborn  sweetness  of  the  rose, 

The  perfume  as  of  Paradise ; 

The  talisman  above  all  price; 

The  optic  glass  that  wins  from  far 

The  meaning  of  the  utmost  star; 

The  key  that  opes  the  goldon  doors 

Where  earth  and  heaven  have  piled  their  stores ; 


86  FIELD  NOTES. 

The  magic  ring — the  enchanter's  wand,- 
The  title-deed  to  Wonder-land ; 
The  wisdom  that  o'erlooketh  sense, 
The  clairvoyance  of  Innocence. 


These  rich  possessions  if  he  own, 
He  shall  be  ours,  and  he  alone. 


July,  1842. 


87 


®l)e  Bouquet 

SHE  has  brought  me  flowers  to  deck  my  room, 
Of  sweetest  scent  and  brilliancy ; 

She  knew  not  that  she  was  the  while 
The  fairest  flower  of  all  to  me. 

Since  her  soft  eyes  have  looked  on  them, 
What  tenderer  beauties  in  them  dwell ! 

Since  her  fair  hands  have  placed  them  there, 
O  how  much  sweeter  do  they  smell ! 

Beside  my  inkstand  and  my  books 
They  bloom  in  perfume  and  in  light : 

A  voice  amid  my  lonesomeness, 
A  shining  star  amid  my  night. 

The  storm  beats  down  upon  the  roof, 
But  in  this  room  glide  summer  hours, 

Since  she,  the  fairest  flower  of  all, 
Has  garlanded  my  heart  with  flowers. 


88 


THERE  is  no  blessedness  in  life 

Apart  from  blessed  Love  ; 
This  sanctifies  the  dreary  strife 

Which  all  who  live  must  prove  ; 
It  lifts  the  burden  from  the  soul, 

And  puts  the  staff  into  the  hand  ; 
The  gloomy  clouds  behind  us  roll, 

And  all  before  is  dawn  and  fairy-land. 

And  this  we  felt  when  side  by  side 

Beneath  those  garden  trees 
We  sat,  when  Spring  was  in  her  pride 

Of  blossoms,  birds  and  bees. 
A  richer  life  we  needed  not, 

A  time  less  bright  we  did  not  fear, 
Than  hallowed  then  that  blessed  spot, 

And  made  the  past  and  future  disappear. 

The  murmuring  bees  about  us  swarming, 

The  violets  at  our  feet, 
Within  our  hearts  were  gently  forming 

All  dreams  and  visions  sweet ; 
The  warm  and  scented  air  was  snowing 

With  scattered  blossoms  from  the  trees, 
And  through  the  sky  we  heard  the  flowing 

Of  Nature's  dear  and  new-born  harmonies. 


LOVE.  89 

We  cannot  now  as  once  we  did, 

Gaze  in  each  other's  eyes, 
For  lonely  absence  doth  forbid 

All  save  our  longing  sighs ; 
But  memories  of  such  hours  as  these 

Come  like  some  gently  floating  strain 
At  midnight  on  a  summer  breeze, 

And  make  us  near  forget  these  hours  of  pain. 

O  Love  is  light  when  all  is  dark  ! 

It  goeth  on  before, 
A  strong  and  still  preserved  ark, 

Though  tempests  round  us  roar. 
O  Love  the  sphered  world  contains  ; 

All  life  within  itself  it  hath ; 
All  else  goes  by,  but  Love  remains, 

And  waves  a  heaven-lit  torch  before  our  path. 


90 


HAD  I  no  memory  of  thcc, 

My  dreams  would  be  like  the  weary  sea, 

Where  wave  on  wave  goes  journeying  by, 

With  no  companion  but  the  sky, 

And  all  is  lone  and  shadowless, 

A  waste  and  briny  wilderness. 

But  mid  these  billows  of  the  mind, 

One  fairy  isle  I  often  find, 

Where  thou  the  bright  Calypso  art, 

The  queen  who  rulcst  o'er  my  heart, 

The  fair  Titania  by  whose  spells 

All  flowers  around  me  ring  their  bells. 

0  when  o'er  the  wide  sea  of  dreams 

1  see  thy  form  like  sunny  beams, 
And  hear  the  sweet  tones  of  thy  voice, 
The  crested  waves  around  rejoice, 

A  morning  breaks  amid  my  night, 
And  thou,  the  centre  of  the  light, 
Guidest  me  on  until  I  stand, 
Still  dreaming,  on  thy  spirit-land  ; 


TO  E .  91 

Then  seem  to  wake,  and  yet  half  deem 

'Tis  but  a  dream  within  a  dream  ; 

And  yet  a  joy  so  tangible, 

A  music  yet  so  audible, 

Reality  not  too  refined, 

A  vision  just  enough  defined, 

That  I  could  ever  linger  there, 

And  breathe  that  dream-perfumed  air, 

And  pass  my  years  unshared,  unseen, 

Save  by  my  fairy-island  queen. 


BIRDS  fly  away  over  land  and  sea, 

Seeking  their  sunny  home ; 
The  winds  are  wandering  strong  and  free, 

Wherever  they  choose  to  roam. 

Light  leaps  down  from  the  upper  air 

Unto  his  loving  flowers  ; 
Darkness  comes  to  his  shadowy  lair 

In  the  deep  tangled  bowers. 

The  rain  comes  when  the  fields  athirst 
Look  panting  up  to  heaven ; 

The  dew-drops  in  the  soft  air  nursed 
Come  to  their  buds  at  even. 

Spring  comes  to  the  patient  earth 
And  melts  away  her  snows ; 

And  summer  with  her  songs  of  rnirth 
Comes  singing  to  the  rose. 

But  ah !  thou  dost  not  come  to  me, 
Like  the  wind,  the  dew  and  the  sun, 

Nor  can  I  wing  my  way  to  thee, 
My  own,  my  blessed  one! 

July.  1842. 


Autumn  Stars. 

A  FEW  hours  since,  when  Night  had  just  begun 

To  light  her  everlasting  lamps  above, 

In  the  far  Northeast  the  fair  Pleiades 

Hung  like  a  cluster  of  ripe  golden  fruit 

Against  the  dim  horizon  wall ;  but  now 

They  have  climbed  upward  far  upon  their  course, 

And  the  whole  heavens  are  changed  from  what  they  were. 

What  a  rare  jubilee  of  blessed  lights  ! 

Above  me  spread  the  vineyards  of  the  sky, 

Untrodden  save  by  feet  of  cherubim ; 

Wide  fields  of  glittering  immensity 

Blooming  in  beauty  unapproachable; 

Clear,  solemn  beacon-fires  by  angels  fed, 

To  fright  away  bad  spirits,  and  to  guard 

The  Universe  from  blight ; — and  stretching  through 

Long  galaxies  of  star-dust — the  highways 

Of  souls — a  tangled  wilderness  of  suns 

Crowded  into  perspective  of  a  length 

That  tires  out  the  up-labouring  wing  of  thought. 

There  great  Orion  striding  in  his  might, 

Fast  girt  with  sparkling  belt  and  scimetar, 

Facing  the  Bull's  red  eye,  Aldebaran  ; — 

Bootes  with  his  dogs ;— the  Greater  Bear 

Circling  untired  around  the  frozen  North  ; — 

Lone  Cassiopoeia  sitting  in  her  chair ; — 


94  AUTUMN  STARS. 

Dewy  Capella  trembling  all  apart, 
And  changing  red  and  blue  her  liquid  light ; — 
Majestic  Sirius,  kingliest  of  all 
That  rule  the  skies ; — all  these  and  millions  more 
O  what  a  pomp  and  blazonry  is  out 
Over  my  head  in  the  deep  dome  of  God  ! 
The  uncounted  eyes  whose  spiritual  light 
Should  hush  the  restless  world  into  a  prayer 
As  pure  and  noiseless  as  the  thoughts  of  God. — 
Ye  blessed  Stars  !  how  oft  when  feverish  moods 
Born  out  of  earthly  fears  and  hopes  were  mine, 
Hath  your  meek  shining  soothed  me  into  peace ! 
So  friendly-distant — coming  every  night, 
Yet  still  so  inaccessible. 
Fit  type  ye  are,  ye  blessed  Stars,  to  me, 
Of  Love  and  Reason  ruling  Will  and  Sense ; 
Of  that  true  Light  which  lighteneth  every  soul, 
And  still  abides  with  man,  and  guides  his  steps ; 
A  friendly,  oft  a  too  familiar  ray, 
Yet  born  of  God,  and  springing  from  a  fount 
As  far  beyond  your  light  as  ye  from  earth. 
Nov.  1842. 


95 


21  Jpraiier. 

O  SPIRIT  pure !  though  trite  and  faded  forms 
Point  like  a  coid  clock-finger  to  thy  Truth, 

And  but  a  glimmer  of  thy  radiance  warms 

The  symbols  that  should  gleam  with  Nature's  youth: 

Though  men  of  selfish  codes  may  hide  or  darken 
That  light  of  thine  own  Purity  and  Love, 

So  that  we  scarce  may  still  the  world  and  hearken 
To  thy  sweet  voice  that  droppeth  from  above : 

Though  man  be  false  and  institutions  vain, 
Not  false  or  vain  let  thy  high  Presence  be ; 

Through  icy  custom  and  through  man's  disdain. 
Shine  on  my  heart  and  set  my  spirit  free ! 

Be  still  my  nameless  Hope,  my  secret  Joy, 
That  comes  and  comes  again  in  hours  of  rest, 

My  rock  of  strength,  that  passeth  all  annoy, 
My  dove  of  heaven,  that  broodeth  in  my  breast. 

Be  all  thou  canst — be  all  I  inly  need ! 

The  world  may  weigh  me  down  but  not  enslave ; 
The  burden  shall  roll  off,  and  I  be  freed, 

If  I  but  trust  the  strength  thy  mercy  gave. 

March,  1843. 


96 


0onwts. 


INTRODUCTORY. 

"  SCORN  not  the  Sonnet  :"*  thus  hath  sung  the  Bard 

Of  holy  Faith  and  calm  Philosophy: 

And  well  the  sage  hath  taught  us  to  regard 

The  lesson  in  his  own  dear  Poesy. 

O  might  I  but  an  humble  follower  be, 

And  tune  my  own  "  small  lute"  to  sing  my  dreams 

Of  Beauty  and  of  Truth,  I'd  bear  to  see 

The  critic  frown  upon  these  passing  gleams, 

Since  such  has  been  the  fate  of  those  bright  ones 

Who  loudest,  sweetest,  swept  the  Poet's  lyre : 

And  fain  I'd  stop  and  listen  while  those  sons 

Of  music  pass.     O  from  their  cars  of  fire 

Might  the  seer's  mantle  drop  on  one  so  low, 

It  were  a  prophet's  gift — but  never  may  be  so. 

*  See  Wordsworth's  Sonnet  commencing  with  these  words. 


SONNETS. 


97 


II. 

INTPoODUCTOHY. 
(Continued.) 

I'LL  love  the  Sonnet  then  for  its  own  sake, 

And  calmly  hold  my  quiet  course  along. 

Like  clouds  and  sky  seen  on  some  lonely  lake, 

Far  from  the  crowded  world,  my  humble  song, 

Although  reflecting  truth  and  loveliness, 

May  be  unknown,  save  to  a  cherished  few ; 

Yet  shall  I  never  love  my  pen  the  less, 

Nor  cease  to  wreathe  my  little  lyre  anew 

With  the  wild  wood-vine  and  the  simple  green 

Of  Nature.     Yes,  the  soul  must  sometimes  speak, 

And  though  its  numbers  flow  almost  unseen, 

It  hath  within  itself,  nor  harsh,  nor  weak, 

A  harmony  that  will  at  times  have  vent, 

Though  all  untuned  the  while,  the  poor,  dull  instrument. 


1836. 


SONNETS. 


III. 

TO  MY  SISTERS. 

SWEET  sisters,  ye  are  far  away,  and  night 

Has  closed  around  us,  dark  and  chill  and  damp, 

And  sullen  with  dull  clouds.     Here  by  my  lamp 

Alone  I  sit,  and  in  its  tapering  light 

Feel  a  calm  sympathy  with  common  things 

Which  in  the  sun-bright  day  I  never  found. 

A  few  small  well-known  books  are  scattered  round, 

Silent  companions  of  my  wanderings ; 

Silent  and  yet  how  eloquent !     Alone 

I  may  not  call  myself  while  these  are  near ; 

Still  less,  when  thinking  of  my  sisters  dear, 

My  fancy  hears  the  sweet  familiar  tone 

Of  merry  voices,  while  amid  your  glee 

Ye  check  the  laugh  sometimes  and  talk  of  me. 

1836. 


SONNETS.  99 


IV. 

TO  MY  FRIENDS. 

To  all  my  absent  friends,  who  scattered  wide, 

Where'er,  a  pilgrim,  I  have  chanced  to  stray, 

May  sometimes  in  the  silent  eventide 

Cherish  a  thought  of  him  who,  far  away, 

Thus  weaves  to-night  his  heart's  rude  sonnet-lay, 

I  send  with  memory  thrilling  with  the  past, 

My  thoughts  and  wishes.     It  may  be  that  they 

Deem  me  forgetful  of  the  times  when  last 

I  held  communion  with  them.     Let  them  not 

Think  that  the  golden  chain  shall  e'er  grow  dim ; 

It  may  be  that  some  new  and  distant  spot 

Shall  with  the  spells  of  home  encircle  him  ; 

Still  I  may  think  that  should  they  ever  see 

This  offering,  they  will  know  how  dear  they  are  to  me. 


100  SONNETS. 


V. 

TO  MY  FRIENDS. 
(Continued.) 

I'VE  wandered  in  the  world  ;  I've  left  tried  friends 

With  tearful  eyes  and  swelling  heart,  behind  ; 

I've  linked  my  soul  to  others ;  Heaven  sends 

This  power  in  infinite  kindness,  thus  to  bind 

Anew  the  cord  that  has  been  once  untwined : 

Thus  are  we  made  for  love  and  sympathy. 

I've  seen  the  Past  grow  faint  and  dusk,  and  pined 

For  days  that  nevermore  shall  come  to  me. 

Yet  have  I  never  loved  those  friends  the  less 

Whom  I  have  gathered  in  my  later  days  ; 

For  in  my  hours  of  gloom  and  loneliness, 

All  shine  like  clustering  stars,  with  purest  rays, 

Though  some  whom  I  have  followed  up  the  skies, 

May  dearer  be  than  those  bright  ones  I  saw  not  rise. 

1836. 


101 


VI. 

TO  ETHELTNDE. 

FAIR  one,  half  known  in  memory,  half  ideal, 

Who  in  my  morning  dream  wert  by  my  side 

Walking  and  close-communing — like  a  bride 

Leaning  upon  my  arm : — ah,  why  not  real, 

Beautiful  vision,  that  white  dream-like  form, 

Those  soft,  dark  eyes,  those  clustered  tresses  curling 

So  tendril-like  adown  thy  cheek  !  Lo,  whirling 

In  my  chaotic  fancy  comes  a  storm, 

Unseen  and  silent,  but  enough  to  scare 

Thy  bright  form  from  my  side,  while  ran  my  joy 

Fullest  and  deepest.     What  dost  thou  destroy, 

Relentless  Day  !  Waking  I  murmur  "  Where, 

Where  is  bright  Ethelinde  ?  Is  it  all  o'er?" 

Then  close  my  eyes  and  try  to  dream  of  her  once  more. 

1836. 


VII. 

TO  THE  MAG-NOLIA  GHANDrFLORA. 

MAJESTIC  flower !  How  purely  beautiful 

Thou  art,  as  rising  from  thy  bower  of  green, 

Those  dark  and  glossy  leaves  so  thick  and  full, 

Thou  standest  like  a  high-born  forest-queen 

Among  thy  maidens  clustering  round  so  fair ; — 

I  love  to  watch  thy  sculptured  form  unfolding, 

And  look  into  thy  depths,  to  image  there 

A  fairy  cavern  ;  and  while  thus  beholding, 

And  while  the  breeze  floats  o'er  thee,  matchless  flower, 

I  breathe  the  perfume,  delicate  and  strong, 

That  comes  like  incense  from  thy  petal-bower, 

My  fancy  roams  those  southern  woods  along, 

Beneath  that  glorious  tree,  where  deep  among 

The  unsunned  leaves  thy  large  white  flower-cups  hung ! 

1836, 


SONNETS.  103 


VIII. 

BEAUTY. 

MEN  talk  of  Beauty — of  the  earth  and  sky, 

And  the  blue  stillness  of  sweet  inland  waters, 

And  search  all  language  with  a  lover's  eye, 

For  flowers  of  praise  to  deck  earth's  glorious  daughters. 

And  it  is  well  within  the  soul  to  cherish 

Such  love  for  all  things  beautiful  around. 

But  there  is  Beauty  that  can  never  perish  ; 

A  hidden  path  no  "  vulture's  eye"*  hath  found. 

Vainly  ye  seek  it  who  in  Sense  alone 

Wander  amid  the  sweets  the  world  hath  given  ; 

As  vainly  ye  who  make  the  Mind  the  throne, 

While  the  Heart  bends  a  slave,  insulted,  driven. 

Thou  who  wouldst  know  what  Beauty  this  can  be, 

Look  on  the  sunlight  of  the  Soul's  deep  purity. 

*  "  There  is  a  path  which  no  fowl  knoweth,  and  which  the  vul 
ture's  eye  hath  not  seen." — JOB  xxviii.  7. 

1836. 


104  SONNETS. 


IX. 

FIRST  TRUTHS. 

THEY  come  to  me  at  night,  but  not  in  dreams, 

Those  revelations  of  realities  ; 

Just  at  the  turning  moment  ere  mine  eyes 

Are  closed  to  sleep,  they  come — clear  sudden  gleams, 

Brimfull    of   truth   like   drops   from   heaven's   deep 

streams 

They  glide  into  my  soul.     Entranced  in  prayer, 
I  gaze  upon  the  vision  shining  there, 
And  bless  the  Father  for  these  transient  beams. 
The  trite  and  faded  forms  of  Truth  then  fall. 
I  look  into  myself,  and  all  alone 
Lie  bared  before  the  Eternal  All-in-all ; 
Or  wandering  forth  in  spirit,  on  me  thrown 
A  magic  robe  of  light,  I  roam  away 
To  the  true  vision-land,  unseen  by  day. 

1837. 


SONNETS.  105 


X. 

MEMORY. 

O  MEMORY,  sweet  sorceress  of  time, 

Strange  saddener  of  hours  brightest  in  our  Past, 

Yet  sweet  in  dreamy  sadness — thou  hast  cast 

Thy  magic  chain  around  me.     Now  the  chime 

Of  faint  departing  voices  wins  my  soul 

Back  to  the  unseen  altar  where  the  heart 

Once  poured  its  fullest  worship ;  lightnings  dart 

Electric, — yet  no  startling  thunders  roll, 

But  only  murmur  distantly  and  sad. 

'Tis  there  thou  dwell'st,  unnamed  but  unforgot, 

O  vision  once  so  dear !  a  different  lot 

Is  thine,  is  mine,  and  we  have  truly  had 

All  that  this  life  could  portion  us  together, 

Parted  at  length  by  storms  of  wintry  weather. 

1838. 


106  SONNETS. 


XL 

I 

SLEEP. 

LIKE  the  dark  mirror  of  some  mountain  lake 
To  woods  and  clouds,  to  stars  and  twilight  flowers, 
Art  thou,  O  Sleep,  to  these  our  waking  hours  ! 
From  all  that  passes  in  us  when  awake, 
Some  strange  reflection  thou  dost  ever  take ; 
From  all  events  and  acts  thy  deeps  have  caught 
The  dim  inverted  images  of  thought 
And  feeling.     But  as  winds  will  sometimes  break 
The  stillness  of  the  water,  every  gleam 
Of  beauty  or  of  order  is  deranged, 
And  all  the  fairy  picture  wildly  changed — 
So  the  calm  image  of  some  happiest  dream 
Turns  dark  and  dim,  and  with  proportion  lost, 
Waves,  endless,  shapeless,  wild,  even  when  loved  the 
most. 


SONNETS.  107 


XII. 

• 

SLEEP. 
(Continued.) 

BUT  come  to  me,  O  Sleep !  I  love  thy  spell, 
Although  thy  waving  mirror  hath  no  power 
To  stay  the  visions  of  the  midnight  hour, 
Or,  like  the  certain  shapes  of  day,  compel 
The  forms  that  haunt  the  shade  of  memory's  cell 
To  stand  before  me.     Come  and  bring  thy  dreams ! 
I  love  to  see  the  dim  and  wavering  gleams, 
As  journeying  downward  to  thy  mystic  dell, 
I  stand  beside  thy  deep  and  shadowy  lake  ; 
Still  let  me  come  and  wander  at  thy  will, 
Through  summer  woods,  by  stream  and  sunny  hill, 
So  of  the  lonely  darkness  I  may  make 
A  bright  and  peopled  kingdom  of  my  own, 
Though  the  dream  flies,  or  darkens,  leaving  me  alone ! 
1837. 


108  SONNETS. 


XIII. 

THE  ROSE. 

DEAR  flower  of  heaven  and  love !  Thou  glorious  thing 

That  lookest  out  these  garden  nooks  among ; 

Rose,  that  art  ever  fair  and  ever  young ! 

Was  it  some  angel  on  invisible  wing 

Hovered  around  thy  fragrant  sleep,  to  fling 

His  glowing  mantle  of  warm  sunset  hues 

O'er  thy  unfolding  petals,  wet  with  dews 

Such  as  the  flower-fays  to  Titania  bring  ? 

0  flower  of  thousand  memories  and  dreams, 
That  take  the  heart  with  faintness,  while  we  gaze 
On  the  rich  depths  of  thy  inwoven  maze  ,* 
From  the  green  banks  of  Eden's  blessed  streams 

1  dreamed  thee  brought,  of  brighter  days  to  tell, 
Long  passed,  but  promised  yet  with  us  to  dwell. 

1838. 


SONNETS.  109 


XIV. 

THE  HONEYSUCKLE. 

SWEET  household  flower,  whose  clambering  vines  festoon 
The  little  porch  before  this  cottage  door, 
How  dear  to  me  when  daylight's  toils  are  o'er, 
By  the  broad  shining  of  the  summer  moon, 
To  feel  thy  fragrance  on  the  breath  of  June 
Afloat ; — or  when  the  rosy  twilight  falls, 
Ere  the  first  night-bird  to  his  fellow  calls, 
Ere  the  first  star  is  out,  and  the  low  tune 
Of  Nature  pauses,  and  the  humming-birds 
Come  wooing  thee  with  swift  and  silent  kisses, 
Ere  wandering  through  the  garden's  wildernesses — 
Emblem  of  that  calm  love  that  needs  no  words, 
Let  me  like  thee,  sweet,  silent  clinging  vine, 
Clasp  my  own  home  awhile,  ere  stranger  home  be  mine. 
1838. 


110  SONNETS. 


XV. 

MORNING. 

THE  earth  was  wandering  in  a  troubled  sleep, 
And  as  it  wandered,  dreaming  tearful  dreams ; 
Then  came  the  sun  adown  his  orient  steep, 
Making  sweet  morning  with  his  golden  beams ; 
A  parent,  bending  o'er  his  child  he  seems, 
Kissing  its  eyes,  lips,  cheeks,  with  warm  embrace ; 
So  kisseth  he  the  mountains,  woods  and  streams, 
And  all  the  dew-like  tears  from  off  its  face. 
O  joy  !  That  father's  smile  is  like  no  other — 
The  child  is  folded  in  a  parent's  arms, 
And  looks  up  to  the  sky,  its  blue-eyed  mother, 
And  laughs,  with  light  upon  its  waking  charms. 
Ah,  happy  earth ;  what  tender  care  hast  thou  ! 
There  is  no  midnight  cloud,  or  dream  upon  thee  now. 
1838. 


SONNETS.  Ill 


XVI. 

NIG-HT. 

THE  star-wrought  mantle  of  the  dewy  Night 
Is  folded  now  all  round  and  round  thee,  Earth  : 
Safely  to  rest !  this  moon  thy  chamber-light, 
These  winds  thy  waving  curtains,  and  the  birth 
Of  white-winged  mountain  mists  thy  dreams  shall  be — 
Silently  rising  as  thy  slumbers  fall. 
The  Night  is  now  too  clear  for  thee  to  see 
The  storm-clouds  gather  at  the  tempest's  call, 
And  fright  thee  with  their  dream-scowl  as  thou  sleepest. 
Rest  thee,  O  mother  Earth  !  The  heavens  above 
Shine  on  thy  sleep,  will  cheer  thee  if  thou  weepest, 
And  sing  thee  their  old  morning  song  of  love ; 
They  watcli  o'er  thee,  as  thou  when  daylight  comes, 
Dost  watch  from  all  thy  hills,  over  thy  children's  homes. 
1838. 


112 


Bonnets  on  Jtttrsical  Instruments. 
I. 

THE  VIOLIN. 

THE  versatile,  discursive  Violin, 

Light,  tender,  brilliant,  passionate  or  calm, 

Sliding  with  careless  nonchalance  within 

His  range  of  ready  utterance,  wins  the  palm 

Of  victory  o'er  his  fellows  for  his  grace ; 

Fine  fluent  speaker,  polished  gentleman — 

Well  may  he  be  the  leader  in  the  race 

Of  blending  instruments — fighting  in  the  van 

With  conscious  ease  and  fine  chivalric  speed  ; 

A  very  Bayard  in  the  field  of  sound, 

Rallying  his  struggling  followers  in  their  need, 

And  spurring  them  to  keep  their  hard-earned  ground. 

So  the  fifth  Henry  fought  at  Azincour, 

And  led  his  followers  to  the  breach  once  more. 


SONNETS.  113 


II. 

THE  VIOLONCELLO. 

LARGER  and  more  matured,  deeper  in  thought 
Slower  in  speech  and  of  a  graver  tone, 
His  ardour  softened  as  if  years  had  wrought 
Wise  moods  upon  him,  living  all  alone, 
A  calm  and  philosophic  eremite  ; 
Yet  at  some  feeling  of  remembered  things, 
Or  passion  smothered,  but  not  purged  quite. 
Hark  !  what  a  depth  of  sorrow  in  those  strings  ; 
See,  what  a  storm  growls  in  his  angry  breast ! 
Yet  list  again — his  voice  no  longer  moans, 
The  storm  hath  spent  its  rage  and  is  at  rest ; 
Strong,  self-possessed  the  Violoncello's  tones, 
But  yet  too  oft  like  Hamlet  seem  to  me 
A  high  soul  struggling  with  its  destiny. 


114  SONNETS. 


III. 

THE  OBOE. 

Now  come  with  me  beside  the  sedgy  brook, 

Far  in  the  fields,  away  from  crowded  street ; 

Into  the  flowing  water  let  us  look, 

While  o'er  our  heads  the  whispering  elm-trees  meet. 

There  will  we  listen  to  a  simple  tale 

Of  fireside  pleasures  and  of  shepherds'  loves. 

A  reedy  voice  sweet  as  the  nightingale, 

As  tender  as  the  cooing  of  the  doves, 

Shall  sing  of  Corydon  and  Amaryllis ; 

The  grasshopper  shall  chirp,  the  bee  shall  hum, 

The  stream  shall  murmur  to  the  waterlilies, 

And  all  the  sounds  of  summer-noon  shall  come, 

And  mingling  in  the  Oboe's  pastoral  tone, 

Make  thee  forget  that  man  did  ever  sigh  and  moan. 


SONNETS.  115 


IV. 

TRUMPETS  AND  TROMBONES. 

A  BAND  of  martial  riders  next  I  hear, 
Whose  sharp  brass  voices  cut  and  rend  the  air. 
The  shepherd's  tale  is  mute,  and  now  the  ear 
Is  filled  with  a  wilder  clang  than  it  can  bear ; 
Those  arrowy  trumpet  notes  so  short  and  bright, 
The  long-drawn  wailing  of  that  loud  Trombone, 
Tell  of  the  bloody  and  tumultuous  fight, 
The  march  of  victory  and  the  dying  groan  ; 
O'er  the  green  fields  the  serried  squadrons  pour, 
Killing  and  burning  like  the  bolts  of  heaven  ; 
The  sweetest  flowers  with  cannon-smoke  arid  gore 
Are  all  profaned,  and  Innocence  is  driven 
Forth  from  her  cottages  and  woody  streams, 
While  over  all,  red  Battle  fiercely  gleams. 


116  SONNETS. 


V. 

THE  HORNS. 

BUT  who  are  these,  far  in  the  leafy  wood, 
Murmuring  such  mellow,  hesitating  notes, 
It  seems  the  very  breath  of  solitude, 
Loading  with  dewy  balm  each  breeze  that  floats  ? 
They  are  a  peasant  group,  I  know  them  well, 
The  diffident,  conscious  Horns,  whose  muffled  speech 
But  half  expresses  what  their  souls  would  tell, 
Aiming  at  strains  their  skill  can  never  reach ; 
An  untaught  rustic  band ;  and  yet  how  sweet 
And  soothing  comes  their  music  o'er  the  soul. 
Dear  Poets  of  the  forest,  who  would  meet 
Your  melodies  save  where  wild  waters  roll? 
Reminding  us  of  Him  who  by  his  plough 
Walked  with  a  laurel-wreath  upon  his  brow ! 
1843. 


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